doobea - Tumblr blog

doobea · 11 days

Text

an artist's swan song.

summary: an injured wrist is the last thing you need before art school applications. no one understands your frustrations-- no one but the boy at the physical therapy office.

notes: 6.3k words, fic, author's notes, discussion of acl tears and carpal tunnel syndrome, they/them pronouns for reader but chigiri calls reader miss artist, takes place before blue lock

The doctor tells you that you’re lucky.

Lucky that you caught the injury so fast, lucky that you were diligent enough to go to the ER as soon as the numbness in your fingers started, lucky that the damage would be minimal, as long as you were careful.

You stare at your black splint the whole time he talks, tight and itchy against your wrist, an alien weight. So this is what luck looks like?

“You’ll need to do these stretches everyday for five minutes at home,” the doctor says, handing you a sheet of paper with exercises for wrist stretches. It trembles in the air in front of you, before your dad swoops in to take it.

“Thank you,” your dad says, clasping a hand on your shoulder. “I’ll make sure they stick to the regime.”

The doctor nods, smiles, and wishes you luck, before ushering the two of you out. His white coat blurs like a streak of paint as the door closes and he takes off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. Your hand twitches for your oil paints to capture the scene, but they’re still lying at home, half-rolled tubs scattered in your room.

“Are you okay?” your dad asks quietly, once you’re out in the hallway.

You nod, rubbing at your splint.

“Don’t do that,” your dad says. “The doctor told you that you shouldn’t strain your wrist unnecessarily.”

“I’m not straining my wrist,” you murmur, and he rubs your back affectionately.

“Still, try not to poke at it, okay?” You round the sterile white hall, and your dad brightens. “Look, a vending machine. Why don’t you go buy something to drink?” He pulls out his wallet, shoving a few yen coins in your hand– your good hand– before you can protest. “I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Your hand hovers in front of the buttons as you amble over to the machine, eyes blurring over the rows of canned drinks and bright colors and happy mascots, before you decide on a single iced black tea. The machine whirs as you slip in your coin, the can slides out– and then it stills, stuck right against the front of the glass. Of course.

You smash your sneaker against the glass pane of the vending machine, your trapped can of iced black tea rattling. One kick. Then another, and the stupid can still won’t drop. You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes. You can’t even get a vending machine to work. Because here you are, in this stupid physical therapy office, when you should be at the art prep academy preparing your portfolio and practicing for your art college exam, but you can’t strain your stupid wrist to pick up your brush.

Something thunks against the vending machine. You slowly open your eyes, just in time to see a boy raise his crutches and slam them against the glass, and, miraculously, your drink drops into the open space below with a pleasant clink.

“I hate this machine. It always gets stuck,” he says.

Half-braided red hair, slender nose, soft mouth. If not for the crutches and the black brace running down the length of his right leg, you’d wonder if he was an angel, not another patient.

“I want you to model for me,” you murmur, entranced by the way his silky hair shifts on his shoulders.

“... What?”

You slap your hands over your mouth. “Sorry! I– You’re pretty, so I– I! I’m an artist. Was an artist? Am?” you ramble, cheeks heating as your words trip all over themselves and the furrow between the boy’s eyebrows grows deeper.

Unexpectedly, he laughs, then points at the vending machine. “Don’t forget your drink, Miss Artist.”

You scramble for the can, pulling it out and offering it to the boy. “You should have it.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s yours.”

You turn, slipping another yen coin into the machine, and in a few seconds, you have another can of black tea. “This way we both have one. So it’s okay, right?”

He tilts his head. “I guess it is.” You consider him again; he really is pretty, pretty enough that your hands itch to sketch him, to capture the outline of his profile. You’re floating at the discovery of a once-in-a-lifetime beauty, a muse– but the brace on your hand slams you back down to earth.

“I think that guy is trying to get your attention,” the boy says, pointing behind you. It’s your dad: he’s watching the two of you with curiosity, but waves his hand once your eyes are on him.

“It’s time for us to go,” your dad says. “Ah, but do you need a minute? New friend?”

The boy gathers himself, forcibly crams the can of black tea you gave him into his pocket, where it bulges out, threatening to fall. “I have an appointment in a bit. So I should get going.”

Your feet won’t cooperate with you. “It was nice to meet you, um…”

“Chigiri Hyoma,” he says.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” you say, then wince. To see him at the physical therapy wing again would mean his injury hadn’t healed. Were you trying to curse him with a slow recovery?

But Chigiri only smiles, a simple act that makes your heart do funny somersaults in your chest. He really is an angel. “Sure. See you around, Miss Artist. Thanks for the tea.”

“Who is that?” your dad whispers, once the two of you are farther down the hall.

“An angel,” you mumble, before flushing under your dad’s quizzical gaze. “I meant a friend! A friend. I think.”

“He seems like a nice boy. It’d be nice for the two of you to get along,” your dad says earnestly.

You glance at Chigiri one more time, the edge of his face lit in a soft glow from the sunshine, his back turned towards you. What is he thinking?

At home that night, his profile still lingers in your mind as you crouch amongst your haphazard piles of sketchbooks and discarded art supplies. It’ll be months before you can use them again, so you might as well take the time to clean, something you’ve neglected in the rush for the upcoming entrance exams for art college.

Oil paints. Pastels. Sticks of charcoal. You’ve dabbled in a lot of different mediums over the years, saving up all your change just to buy supplies from the art store a few subway rides away from your house. Cheap materials work just as well as expensive ones, and it doesn’t matter what you use as long as you have paper in front of you. Your first memories involve you crouching in the living room, a crayon fisted in your chubby hand as you scribble nonsensical shapes all over the white kitchen wall, something that caused your dad endless suffering when he found you.

Your dad did save up to buy you a nice set of watercolors for the art prep academy you’ve been attending, and though he only smiles and encourages you to keep painting, it’s a strain on your finances. Art isn’t cheap, and your only hope is to get into a public art school by passing the entrance exams. But now… it looks like you can’t even do that, thanks to your wrist.

Carpal tunnel syndrome.

That’s the diagnosis the doctor gave you, an illness more common in people three times your age, brought on by repetitive trauma on your wrist that led to a pinched nerve.

Unusual for someone as young as you, the doctor had said. But you’re lucky, because of the fact that you’re young and the injury is light, so you’ll heal in a few months with rest.

But time isn’t a luxury you can afford. You were supposed to pass the exam. Get into an art school. Practice, graduate, become an artist. Your dream, once so solid, has burst like a bubble just as soon as you begin to reach towards its hazy outline. Every second you’re resting is a second wasted, a second that could have been spent practicing and improving.

“How did you get this injury?” the doctor had asked.

Because of art. Because you couldn’t stop drawing, because then it would feel like you were drowning in the water. Freelance commissions. Constant practice. Art club and art academy lessons. You’d forgotten to breathe these past few months, forgotten to eat or rest.

But all of that came back to bite you, in the end. No more art, the doctor had said. At least until you’re healed. And even after that, you wouldn’t be able to keep up the excruciating pace you once had.

You flop down on your futon. Your classmates must be in the middle of class by now, honing their skills. And what are you doing?

You’re floating in a small boat in the middle of the ocean, unmoored. No oars, no maps. Just the rocking of the waves, unsure of where you’re going to end up, your dream like a distant land. The shape of it, once rendered real with each stroke of your paintbrush, is undiscoverable now.

—

It’s only a month later that you visit the physical therapy office again for a follow-up appointment. The weather has turned chilly by then, a brisk bite of cold that heralds the coming winter. This time, you go alone, taking the subway until it screeches to a stop at your destination. In the hospital, it’s the same white walls and sterile air, a place unmoored from time.

“Keeping up with your stretches?” the doctor asks.

“Everyday.”

“Good! And how’s the sensation in your fingers?”

“Not as bad anymore. They don’t shake, and the numbness is mostly gone.”

The doctor nods. “Perfect! You’re on the path to recovery. Let’s keep the brace on for several more months. Keep up with the stretches, and don’t forget to lay off of drawing until you’ve recovered.”

Your appointment is over, but you’re not in the mood to go home yet. Instead, you wander down the halls aimlessly, nurses and patients bustling by with a purpose. You don’t even realize you’re looking for Chigiri until you spot him in the hospital cafeteria, crutches leaning against the table and poking at a plastic bear full of lychee jelly.

“Chigiri Hyoma,” you say on instinct, his name rolling smoothly on your tongue.

“Hm…?” He looks up. “Oh. It’s you, Miss Artist. Back again?” He unscrews the bear’s head, and hands you a small capsule of jelly. “Want one? My friends brought me this, but I can’t eat all of it.”

You rip the plastic lid off and squeeze the jelly into your mouth, the sweetness sliding down your throat. “It’s good.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Glad you liked it.” The rest of the jelly, you notice, is untouched.

“Appointment go well?” you say instead.

“Yeah. It’s not like I can make my knee any worse. I’m doing stretches and exercises to strengthen it, but…”

The expression on his face makes you ache, if only because you’ve seen it so many times when you look in the mirror: your body, a sudden traitor, and the world you thought you knew crumbling beneath your feet.

The words are out of your mouth before you can process them. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

There’s no hesitation as Chigiri looks you right in the eyes and says: “Yes.”

Shuffling out of the hospital into the cold air, jackets and scarves wrapped tight, you and Chigiri make your way aimlessly down the street. He had dumped his lychee jelly with the receptionist with a pretty smile and a “I can’t finish all of this. I hope you can enjoy it with your colleagues,” and then you were off down a block of glass storefronts in bright colors. Few other people were out on the street, so the two of you might have been the only people left in Japan.

You keep glancing at him now and again, his pensive face, the stillness of his expression like a pond glazed with frost.

“You said you wanted me to model for you last time. Is that why you can’t stop staring?” Chigiri says, without turning to face you.

You start. You thought you had been careful, but he’d caught you nonetheless. “Um! A little! You’re very… pretty.”

“I get that a lot. My teammates used to call me princess,” he says, snorting. “That, and Red Panther. Local newspaper made it catch on, and everyone gave me crap about how cheesy it was.”

“Teammates?”

“Football teammates. I was the fastest on my team. Not that I can play with my knee like this.” His crutch taps a sharp staccato beat on the ground. “ACL tear.”

You rub at your own splint. “It’s carpal tunnel syndrome for me. I would have wanted you to model for me if it was still… if I could… ah, well, I can’t draw for the next few months.”

Chigiri nods. “A football player who can’t run, and an artist who can’t draw. That’s kinda funny, isn’t it?” There’s a note of bitterness in his voice.

“It won’t be the same once we’re healed,” you say matter of factly, words blowing small clouds into the sky. “Everyone tells me it’s not the end, that I can do something else, but… I don’t know. I won’t be able to draw like I used to. I can heal, but… I’ll still remember what this felt like.”

His face twists into a small smile. “Yeah. You’re the only one who hasn’t tried to comfort me, or told me it’ll be okay. Because it won’t be. It won’t be the damn same.”

Because your body will remember. Even having this injury once opens the door for your wrist to tear again. And next time, it could be even worse. Unrecoverable, even, to the point where any hope of an art career will be shattered beyond repair. That must have been what it felt like for Chigiri, too, and football.

“Every second spent healing feels like I’m losing time,” you murmur.

He nods. “What were you going to do before the injury?”

You cup your hands around your mouth, blowing on them to keep warm. “Art college.”

“I was going to go to nationals,” he says. “You’re a third year?”

“Yeah. You, too?”

“Nah, second year. This was my chance to win.” Chigiri looks up at the sky, gray clouds reflecting in his eyes. “I was a genius. Everyone told me I was going to do something special. That I could go pro, and lead Japan to the World Cup.”

“But is genius even real?” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… any skill can be honed with enough hard work,” you say simply. “That’s what I believe, anyways. Calling someone a ‘genius’ or ‘talented’ ignores all of the work someone put in to reach that point. People tell me I’m talented, but… I just really love art. I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

“I never thought of it like that.” Chigiri spares a glance at you. “You’re stronger than I am.”

“I don’t know if I’m any stronger than you. I still got hurt. Geniuses, hard workers… we’re all the same in the end,” you reply. He doesn’t respond to that.

The stretch of storefronts gives way to a grassy clearing, a small park consisting of a dirt path and a stretch of trees. “You want to stop by?” you say, pointing.

“Looks like it could be a football field,” Chigiri murmurs. There it is again. That sad, distant look in his eyes, like he doesn't know where he’s going. Lost, adrift.

“Teach me how to play,” you say impulsively.

“Football?”

“Tell me how to score a goal,” you say. “I want to know.”

Chigiri’s laugh is a short, sweet melody. “All right. Let’s go pick up a football ball, and I’ll teach you how to score. Looking for a career change already, Miss Artist?”

“I just thought… I wanted to learn more about it, that’s all,” you say softly. You want to learn more about him, but you bite the thought back.

“Then… teach me how to draw,” he says. “How about that?”

“Deal!”

After a quick stop to a nearby sports store, you’re on the grassy field, a football poised beneath your foot, while Chigiri calls instructions from a nearby bench. He can’t venture into the field, not with his crutches, but you’re close enough for him to watch.

“Use the top of your foot to kick! Not your toe!” he says, cupping one hand around his mouth.

“Like this?” You try to adjust your posture, but Chigiri shakes his head. You shift your foot under the ball again, but it wobbles away from you. You dash after it, trying to stop the movement with your foot, only to kick the ball farther away instead.

You turn to Chigiri with wide eyes, but he’s smiling at you, his eyes crinkling at the corner. “I don’t know if the football life is for you, Miss Artist,” he says.

“I’ve never played before,” you say defensively, retrieving the runaway ball. Once you’re back in position in front of Chigiri, you adjust your posture again.

“Don’t look afraid of it,” he calls. “You’re supposed to control the ball. It listens to you, not the other way around.”

You sigh, then give the ball a tentative kick, watching it sail across the air, curving to the left. “I don’t know how you shoot it straight,” you murmur.

“It depends on the angle of your kick,” Chigiri explains.

Once the ball is safely tucked under your arm, you make your way back to him, flopping down on the bench. The cold seeps through your clothes, and you shiver. Without a word, Chigiri scooches closer to you, until your shoulders are touching.

“Football is hard,” you groan. “The fact you were able to do it… I’m impressed, Chigiri.”

“They did call me a genius, you know? But… I did practice hard,” he acknowledges. “Sometimes, I wake up in the morning, thinking I need to hurry to practice because I’m late, before I remember… my knee. And it’s winter, so there’s no practice going on, anyways. But…”

“It’s important to you.”

“Yeah.” He nudges you with his elbow. “Hey, your turn. Teach me how to draw, Miss Artist.”

You pull out a mini notebook and a pen from your pocket. You always carry some form of paper and writing utensil with you, just in case, and it’s hard to shake off the habit, even with your hand the way it is.

You set the supplies on Chigiri’s lap, and he twirls the pen in his hand as he picks it up. “So,” you begin, “Um… Usually, you have to observe what you want to draw. With sketches, I usually try to measure the dimensions of the object with my pencil, but… you can just try to freeform it! Notice shapes. Everything is made up of shapes. You could try… drawing that streetlight–” you point– “or that tree. You should try watching how light falls on it, too. From what angle? Where do the shadows land?”

“Observation… Shapes… Light…” Chigiri mutters seriously, and, for some reason, he quickly looks at you before looking away.

He begins to draw, his pen whirring furiously across the page. Content, you stare into the gray sky, before turning to observe his progress. The drawing… well… you can’t make anything out, except for a few lines extending outwards of what appears to be… a circle?

“Chigiri…”

“Yeah?”

“Um… you should try turning the paper as you draw,” you offer. “Don’t just use the pen.”

He flicks his wrist and the notebook slides sideways, but his pen slips and the line curves away. He throws it down in exhaustion. “How do you do this all the time? This is hard.”

“Don’t say that! I think it looks good!” you offer. “It’s a nice… um… tree!”

“It’s not a tree.”

“... Horse?” You say, squinting at the page again.

Chigiri flips the notebook closed. “You don’t deserve to see my art. I’m not telling you what it is.”

“No, it’s okay! You tried your best. What did you draw?”

“I’m not sharing.”

“I played football for you,” you say plaintively.

“...Ugh. Don’t laugh,” he warns.

“I won’t,” you promise, and Chigiri sighs, flipping open to the page he had been doodling on.

“It’s you,” he says, with a long-suffering sigh, the tips of his ears reddening.

“It’s me? It’s cute! It’s really cute!” you say earnestly, taking the notebook from him. On closer inspection, you can make out what’s supposed to be a… neck? And your eyes. And this must be… your nose and mouth.

“You thought it was a horse,” he grumbles, but he brightens at your praise, regardless of his moody tone.

“It’s a very cute horse. I make a very cute horse? Ah, I didn’t mean to offend you— I really do think it’s—”

Chigiri bursts out laughing. “It’s fine. It can’t be helped if it looks like a horse.”

“Well.. now that I’m looking at it like this… it doesn’t look like a horse. Not at all.”

“You don’t have to make me feel better,” Chigiri says.

“I’m not! I really do like it!”

Something wet touches your cheek, and you look up. It’s snowing, soft flakes dancing through the sky.

Chigiri holds out a hand, catching snowflakes on his palm. “We should head back, just in case it gets worse.”

“Ah, okay.” You stand, and he grabs his crutches.

“Thanks, Miss Artist,” he says. “This was fun.”

“Let’s meet up again soon,” you say. “If you want.”

“I’d be mad at you if you just abandoned me now,” Chigiri teases. “Give me your phone number.”

After exchanging numbers with numb fingers, the warm glow of your time with Chigiri doesn’t fade, even on the ride home. It balloons in your chest, until you’re filled with light. In your room, you carefully rip out Chigiri’s sketch from your notebook and pin it over your desk wall. It’s not skilled at all, but it really is cute.

How long has it been since you enjoyed yourself like that? No, how long has it been since you enjoyed art?

You press two fingers against the mouth of the drawing, remembering Chigiri’s face scrunched up in concentration that afternoon, trying to capture your likeness.

—

A few weeks later, as you’re slipping on your boots, your dad stops you at the doorway. He tries to smile at you, buttoning his suit jacket for his office job, but it comes off as more of a grimace. You’ve been spending all your time with Chigiri lately, and you wonder if your dad is going to press you about him.

Instead, he asks, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do next year?”

“For what?” You tie the laces, pat down your coat, but something in your dad’s expression makes you pause with one hand on the door knob.

“For college,” he says. “Do you have any back-ups lined up? I know you’re still recovering, and you really wanted to go to art school, but I don’t want you to neglect all your options! Your grades are still good enough to land you somewhere in Tokyo.”

You bite your lip so hard you almost taste blood. “I was going to take a gap year.”

“Gap year…? That’s okay, as long as you’ve talked to your counselor, but…” His voice trails off in concern.

But art isn’t a viable career option. Don’t pin your hopes on one dream. You need to grow up, to be reasonable, to learn when to quit. Art can be a hobby. That’s what all the adults in your life have always told you, saying it was for your own good, but until now, your own dad hadn’t been one of them.

You scuff at the ground. “I am thinking seriously about my future, you know.”

Your dad sighs, a quiet, gentle sound. “I know. I know you love art, but I want you to have more than one option in your life. I want what’s best for you, because I can’t always be here to take care of you. Having a dream is nice, but you’re almost an adult. Do you understand?”

“I get it. But I’m going out with a friend today,” you say abruptly. “I’ll be home in the afternoon.”

You run out before your dad can respond, but your hands are shaking as you swipe your card and descend the subway steps, the warm underground hair heating up your face as the train rumbles by. Why is it that all the adults in your life only know how to tell you the same thing? Why is giving up on your dreams the only way to grow up? Because, deep down, you know they’re not wrong. The art world is unforgiving. There’s no guarantee of a good future or even a job. But… you thought your dad, at least, would understand you.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” It’s the first thing Chigiri asks you when you find him leaning against a bench, crutches by his side, waiting for you by the subway exit.

“Yeah, I did. I’m just a little cold,” you lie. Chigiri doesn’t push the issue any farther, but his eyes feel like they’re burning into you the longer you try to keep your expression neutral.

“Do you want to sit inside somewhere?” he asks finally. “If you’re cold, we don’t have to go too far.”

A swarm of people floods past the two of you, and you press closer to Chigiri, afraid of being pushed away in the rush. You can feel the ache of winter deep in your bones, seeping through the thread of your gloves and coat. The sky is a faded blue, the sun’s light watery.

“As long as I’m with you, I don’t mind going anywhere,” you tell him, and Chigiri tucks his face into the fold of his scarf, but not before you catch the bright rose of his cheeks.

“Let’s just walk around, then,” he says.

Most people don’t brave the winter cold unless they have a destination in mind, but you and Chigiri wander aimlessly. Just the two of you, chatting about this and that, pointing out funny displays in stores or commenting on the foods you’d like to try when you pass by restaurants with their menus pasted on the glass.

It’s comfortable with him. Warm. If you had to name the feeling in your chest, you could only compare it to the spring sun. You could go anywhere, do anything, under the light of his smile. There’s a genuine understanding with Chigiri, like a language without words.

When you lean closer to Chigiri, he doesn’t move away. He raises a hand from the top of his crutch, hovering in the space between the two of you, and when you catch his eyes, he pauses, before dropping his hand and tightening his grip on his crutches.

“Are you okay, Chigiri?”

“I’m fine,” he says moodily, but there’s no heat behind his words. “I just can’t wait until I get this brace off,” he adds, so quietly you almost don’t catch it.

You pass a trio of students flying down the street, canvas tucked under their arms and bookbags slung across their chests. One of them pauses when she sees you, stumbling to a halt, her mouth parted.

“No way! It’s— whoa, I haven’t seen you in weeks!” she says, and recognition jolts through you. It’s Mika from your art prep academy, and the fact she’s here— ah. Of course. Just because you stopped drawing, didn’t mean everyone else would have, too.

“Hi, Mika,” you say weakly.

“I thought you dropped out!” she says, and her friends crowd curiously around you and Chigiri.

“Things came up.”

“Skipping class to go hang out with your boyfriend? I get it, he’s a cutie,” she says teasingly, winking at Chigiri. “And here I thought art was the most important thing to you.”

“I didn’t— he’s not—” you begin, your thoughts tangling themselves into knots. You hadn’t explained anything to your classmates, or your teacher. You had quit when your hand started going numb and you couldn’t keep up with the pace, despite your teacher begging you to stay on. What could you say now?

Chigiri takes a step in front of you. “They didn’t drop out for something like that,” he says politely, but there’s an edge to his voice. He also didn’t refute their assumption that he was your boyfriend, you realize. “Don’t assume things about them.”

“Ah, of course! I didn’t mean to…” Mika’s voice trails off, embarrassed. Her eyes glaze over Chigiri’s crutches and leg brace, and you discreetly shift your sleeve further over your wrist splint. “Sorry. Are you going to go to classes again?”

“I don’t know yet,” you say haltingly. “I might… take a gap year.”

“Eh? But you were the best artist in our class! That doesn’t…” Mika shakes her head. “Sorry. There I go again, assuming things. Good luck with your gap year, okay?”

You wave her off, and she and her friends run down the street again, scarves flying behind them. Still, the wind carries their voices to you.

“That’s good for you, right, Mika? Less competition for college! I can’t believe that someone who quit so easily was the best person in your class,” one of her friends murmur.

“Cut it out, Aki! Don’t put it like that. But… I guess even talented people can only go so far,” Mika replies softly, their banter fading as they get farther away, specks of blurred paint in the distance.

You can’t be mad. You really can’t. You didn’t give anyone a reason for why you dropped out, and didn't want to explain the truth: that your body broke down. That you can’t keep up. Your classmates, with shining eyes, chase after the dreams that were once yours. Their judgment would have been embarrassing enough. Their pity— and calculated relief— would have been worse.

Chigiri grabs your shoulders, his face more serious than you’ve ever seen him.

“Are you okay?” Chigiri says urgently, and it’s only then you realize you’re crying.

“I want to draw,” you whisper, tears choking your voice.

Chigiri wipes away each beading tear with his thumb. He pauses at the weak sound of your voice, rubbing tenderly at the wet trails on your face, as he could wipe away your sadness, too. “Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”

“I want to draw, Chigiri. I don’t know… what I’m supposed to do now.”

“Do you like art?” he says.

“I do. But…” The shape of your dream is so fragile. You’ve only realized this now, how many people strive for the same thing you want. How easily you could be buried under the crush of artists, lost before you have a chance to make a name for yourself. One mistake. One stroke of bad luck. And it can all crumble apart in your hands. “But I’m so scared.”

“It’s your dream,” he says quietly. “It’s okay. Don’t–” his voice breaks. “Don’t give up now. Don’t give up. You can heal. Who gives a damn if you don’t get into art college this year? You have the next, and every year after that. It’s important to you, right? So don’t give up,” he says furiously, but you can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. “It doesn’t matter what anyone says. It only matters what you want.”

And what do you want? Fame? Recognition? Talent? No. No, none of those really matter in the end. What really matters to you…

“I… I want to draw,” you sob. “I want to be an artist. I want to make my dream come true. I don’t… I don’t want to forget what it’s like to love art.”

“Then don’t.” Chigiri crushes you to his chest, and you sob quietly into his coat as he clings to you. Are you holding him, or is he holding you? You can’t tell. You wrap your arms around him, and the two of you hold each other like it’s the end of the world. And maybe it is, an end to the world the two of you thought you knew, to the people you once were.

“You really are like an angel, Chigiri,” you say, voice muffled as you speak into his chest.

His laugh vibrates pleasantly through his chest and into your heart. “I’m not. I’m not that nice. I just don’t want you to be sad. You remind me of… myself, sometimes.”

You fist your hands in the fabric of his coat. “So what? You’re still nice to me.”

“Maybe I’m only nice to you,” he says.

“That’s okay.”

On that quiet afternoon, Chigiri holds you until your tears dry and you can face him again. You can’t be a good adult. You’ll cling to your dreams like a stubborn child and never let go, even if you have to rebuild yourself from the ground up, again and again. When you tell Chigiri this, he smiles at you, and it feels a bit like salvation.

—

A few weeks later, your wrist brace comes off, though you’re diligent to keep up with your stretches, anyways. Chigiri celebrates with you, taking your wrist in his hand like he’s holding a bird’s wing, the pads of his thumb brushing along your pounding pulse.

“Let me be the first person you draw now that you’ve recovered,” he teases. “Don’t I make for a good muse?” You can’t look him in the eyes, because your expression will betray you.

The weather warms before Chigiri can walk again without crutches and a leg brace. When he can, he shows up at the entrance of your school after class one day. Your classmates giggling and murmuring as they pass by him. He waves when he sees you, ignoring all the eyes on him. Maybe he’s used to it. You aren’t surprised, considering how pretty he is.

“Hyoma,” you greet him, clutching the straps of your bag. You’ve started to use your first names with each other, a simple intimacy that makes you tingle all over. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says. “I got invited to a special football training project.”

“That’s amazing!” You clap your hands together. “Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know yet,” he says haltingly, unconsciously tapping his hand on his right leg. “But when I got the letter, I just… wanted you to be the first to know.”

“If that’s the case, then…” You fumble in your bag and out a square of paper, offering it to Chigiri. “This is for you.”

Chigiri unfolds it slowly, revealing a pencil sketch of him, mid run, his form blurring as his legs stretch across the ground. You’d sketched it the day after he’d taken off his crutch, and he had invited you out. The two of you had spent all day together at a nearby park, and when you asked him to show you the football forms you hadn’t been able to grasp the past winter, he obliged.

But Chigiri stares at the paper for so long, you wonder if you had hurt him somehow.

“I’m sorry if it’s presumptuous of me to give you that,” you say shyly. “I just… wanted to give you something for good luck. Because I know you can do it, Hyoma. You can keep playing football. I think you look beautiful, sprinting across the field.”

“Then I want to give you a good luck charm, too,” he says slowly, tearing his eyes from the page, a strange note to his voice. “Is that okay?”

You nod. Chigiri cups his hands around your cheeks and kisses you on the forehead. His lips are softer than you expected, and it takes your breath away.

You pull away, flustered, and only now do you see how intense Chigiri looks, the way his eyes are concentrated solely on you. “Hyoma–!”

“If you say my name like that, I’ll kiss you again,” he says bluntly.

“Hyoma, that’s not–!” This time, he kisses you on the cheek.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. “I wanted to do that.”

“That’s… not fair,” you mumble.

“But I thought you knew I wasn’t fair,” he says. “You’ve spent this much time with me, after all. You should have realized by now that when I like something, I don’t hold back.”

“I never said… I didn’t like it,” you protest, and he grins.

“Then I can do it again?” he asks.

“Not in front of my school!” you squeak.

“Okay, then I’m going to kiss you as much as I want when we’re somewhere else,” he says, unrepentantly.

“Fine!” you say, and, in a surge of courage, lace your fingers with his. Chigiri jolts in surprise, and you smile at catching him unaware. “What was that good luck charm for, anyways?”

“For your dreams,” he says simply. “Because you’re not going to give up, are you, Miss Artist?”

You’re still afraid. Of your body giving away again. Of not being able to make it. Of being nothing without art. But you’re even more afraid of giving up, of becoming an adult who doesn’t believe in their dreams, of losing your passion forever. Carefully, this time. You’ll do daily stretches so you don’t strain your body. You’ll go back to the art academy. You’ll keep trying, and you’ll keep drawing, because that’s what you do as an artist.

“I won’t. So don’t give up either, Hyoma,” you say quietly. He squeezes your hand in response.

“You’re braver than me,” Chigiri says ruthfully.

“I’m only brave because you believe in me. So, let me believe in you,” you reply. This time, you’re the first to lean in to kiss Chigiri, to give him his own good luck. Because no matter what happens, the two of you will keep running.

#omg ive been on a reading slump lately and need to catch up on some things but #this is one of the first things i saw a while back but didnt get a proper chance to find the time to sit down to actually read/digest #but omg im so glad that i finally did because holy shit #i love love LOVE how you portrayed chigiri #and like i dont usually write chigiri bc his character is kinda... idk hard for me to grasp #hes an interesting fella like funny and charming in his own way but also intense #and i think you captured that perfectly in this!!#i was invested from beginning to end and omg the ending was just so AAAHH !! (in a good way i promise OP)#also OP just know that i love your writing style #it felt like i was watching a movie/drama tbh #this also altered my brain a lil bit too...#in the most loving/normal way possible #anyways!!!! thank you so much for taking your time to write this ;;#<3 <3

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