Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Enraptured. Mesmerised, mystified and buoyant. The beautiful essence of humanity's heart. These were the emotions and beliefs that blossomed inside Yusuke Kitagawa as he first bore witness to his mother’s paintings at a tender age. The mere sight of her skillful brush strokes, of the multifaceted sentiments poured and rendered upon her worn canvases, suffused him with an awe beyond his growing mind, and kindled a flame of selfsame passion within. He has sought to capture such virtues in his own work ever since, perpetually inspired by the bygone memories of that fateful day. But no matter how much he wished it so, he did not live in a fairytale where ardour and devotion could sustain alone.

A decaying roof hung over his head. Sparse coffers deprived and near vacant shelves were a constant. There was not a day his stomach did not cry out for proper sustenance, and his mouth was not the only one in need of food. Ichiryusai Madarame, his foster father, who had provided him shelter and meagre warmth over the course of his life, was his only living family within this battered cottage. The two suffered as one, for better or worse, and such only compounded once the toll of time seized the elderly man. His ability to work, to paint was lost to the atrophy of his joints, and respites for such commanded a fortune, a price which left them beyond starved for necessities. Now rendered as their sole income provider, Yusuke had to labour twice as hard to achieve what little comfort they had managed prior, and whilst the gnawing desperation for food sometimes tempted him to purchase such over Madarame’s medication, he couldn’t bear to watch his father agonise.

With eyes most unnerved, the younger man stared down at a letter of utmost quality; its mere envelope superior to the paper he toiled his creations upon. He knew the moment he wrestled it from their tattered mailbox that it were no mere bill, for it was addressed to him and harboured a wax crimson seal, one imprinted by an unfamiliar insignia. Despite the name it bears, he was not permitted to unravel its contents, for each and every action required his father’s approval. A sense of unease instilled from its sheer existence, and while a desire to toss it aside and not deal with its potential consequences pricked him, curiosity and trepidation impelled him to obey.

Fumes of rotten wood, burning timber and soot assaulted his nose as he advanced to inform his father, decrepit floorboards groaning under each of his steps. The heat of the nearby fireplace did little to expunge the pungent odours of their home - if anything, it exacerbated them. But Madarame enjoyed rocking in his chair before the pit, forcing the navy-haired man to suffer its intensified nausea. As his feet bear closer, countless questions suffocate his mind. What matters did a letter as fine as this possess? Was his name inscribed by mistake? And was this all some elaborate, cruel hoax?

With a final creak, his movements ceased - and so too did his ability to think. Now in front of his father, his lips hesitate to part, only for the old man to cut him off with a single grunt and a wave of his hand, signalling his permission.

Subduing a discontented sigh, Yusuke unfurled and began to read aloud the opulent letter. Within described an invitation, a golden opportunity to paint for a fortune. The Kurusu estate, a charitable and once prevalent upper-class family, requested a portrait of their heir, and bade his presence at their mansion as soon as possible. Beyond such details, there was not much else. It’s as if it were intentionally vague, perhaps to lure one to its validity.

As words ripe with enticement concluded upon the younger man’s tongue, his throat began to constrain and his body stiffened. Instead of grinning ear to ear alike his father, instead of being washed away by utter bliss and joy at the proposed offer, he found himself in undying disbelief.

“This is a wonderful opportunity, Yusuke!” Madarame exclaimed, only to wheeze and pat his overexcited chest. “You mustn’t keep them waiting! Oh, I know! Why don’t you write them a quick correspondence? There should be some paper in that drawer over there.”

Before Yusuke could even process the summon himself, his father launched straight into acceptance, eagerly pointing towards a broken cabinet. Yet the elderly man’s actions were not caught by his ashen eyes, for they were instead still glued to the lonesome page, scrutinising it in a desperate attempt for clarity.

A sudden and sharp crutch of fetid wood snapped his gaze towards his father, witnessing a familiar glare of fierce contempt.

“Pay attention when I am speaking to you, dammit!” Madarame spattered, his veiny hand clenched into a fist upon the chair’s arm. “I do not wish to live like this any longer, do you hear me?!”

“I...” Startled yet acclimated to such outbursts, Yusuke’s grip tightened around the paper. He then endeavoured to provide a response - any, any at all, “I-I don’t either, it’s just…”

“Good. Because I won’t accept such indolence…”

As his father cleared his throat and repositioned in his seat, the navy-haired man averted his eyes momentarily. He couldn’t comprehend, understand how an invitation of this magnitude could find its way into his malnourished hands, for he did not exhibit nor sell his art. How could he possibly achieve a reputation adequate enough to reach a family of such status? Of such distance? It did not make any sense whatsoever, as not even those within his village knew of his abilities. Somehow, he had to convince his father of its wanton absurdity, to guide him away from the delusions of yearned grandeur and cast the letter with the selfsame suspicion he holds.

“F-Father, do you not find this a little… strange?” Remnants of hope forced the words out, despite the acute pressure weighing within his chest. “I’m finding it difficult to believe my meagre existence, or talents, would reach a family of such class…”

“Strange…?! What kind of excuse are you giving me now?!” Coughed the old man, “Are you so blind you cannot see the insignia, or their damn signature, for that matter?!” His baneful voice reverberated off the walls, amplifying in volume with each disparagement, “You’ll do anything to avoid work, won’t you?! I question if you even do half the time with the amount of meagre shit you bring me!”

“T-That’s not true, father…! I do work endlessly for you, it’s just with inflation and-”

“I don’t want to hear even more of your excuses, boy!”

“I’m not trying to excuse myself, I assure you, I…!” Biting his lip to ensure a respectful tone, Yusuke released a shaky sigh and sought to remain on a course of reason, “I do not seek to deny its insignia nor signature, but… those, unfortunately, can be forged, and without seeing another, genuine copy, we cannot be certain it’s from the Kurusu family… I can understand why you believe in such, but there are simply too many circumstances that do not align, such as their awareness of my paintings. It, unfortunately, seems very fictional…”

“I don’t give a damn how it seems to you, you ungrateful brat!” Madarame shouted yet again, his voice brimful with venom. “Do you think I, an artist of far greater talents than you, would be fooled by such childish forgery?! The fact you call yourself an artist yet cannot see the utter prestige of this paper, parchment no mere fool could afford, insults me not only as your teacher but also to my very core!”

“I-I apologise, truly! I did not intend any offence!” Ashamed of his own careless tongue, Yusuke bowed his head with such ardour his world spun. “Your eyes are indeed most discerning, and I truthfully have never doubted them! It’s just…” Clutching his arm, he released another trembling breath. “H-How do you suppose they gained knowledge of my art, e-enough to request a portrait, no less…? I do not know much about them, but I did read their current heir hasn’t left their estate in years… So why? Why summon me of all people…? And why hire my reclusive hand over your public and far more brilliant one, for instance…?”

“Are you daft, or just playing the part?!” His expression of pure scorn, Madarame gyrated his boney fingers and clamoured, “Look at my hands! Do they appear as if they can hold a damn brush anymore?!”

“Ah, no, I-! I meant-!”

With a swift rise of his hand, the elderly man screamed, “Enough!” - the sheer volume enough to pierce the eardrums of all those around. “‘It’s just this’ or ‘it’s just that’! How about you just shut the hell up!” He then composed somewhat, exhaling in vexation as he began to rub his temple. “I don’t want to hear your voice anymore... You are to go there tomorrow and ascertain if the letter is legitimate, or are you also too stupid to ask them a simple question…?!”

“...”

Aware further protests would only compound the fragmentation of his heart, Yusuke’s gaze faltered to his riddled shoes. His eyes stung, pricked by harsh diatribe, yet he possessed no more tears to shed. He had grown used to such treatment, the trivialisation of all his concerns and desires, and whilst, deep down, he knew this matter would bear no difference, it did not dull the pain.

“I’ll take your silence as acceptance then,” Madarame concluded, a minute smile upon his shrivelled lips. “Now, I suggest you rest early tonight. The mansion is quite the distance, after all.” Stroking his beard, he sought his foster son’s attention. “I’ll even let you forgo the job hunt today as preparation, so don’t say I never do anything nice for you.”

“M-Mm, I’ll do exactly so, and, thank you for your benevolence…” Yusuke’s voice quivered as he performed yet another bow - his words almost lost to the crackle of flames. “I… also apologise for my disgraceful behaviour… It won’t happen again, I promise…”

Satisfied, the senior man huffed, “That’s a good boy.” before he gestured towards the sun-deprived corridor. “Now, go and brush up on your so-called skills… You’ll be meeting royalty, so not a droplet of failure will be tolerated, both in your art and appearance.”

Offering a meek nod, Yusuke turned his heels and proceeded to seek his room, the invitation rumpled in his grasp, and his chest ripe with sorrow. The moment he witnessed the letter, he knew it would deliver unto him more anguish, that even if it were this supposed financial saviour, it would be of none for his spirit. After all, he only yearned for a civil conversation with his father, to have his worries addressed and reassured - but as was his wont, Madarame twisted every facet of his words. He could not even question its existence without being lambasted, and while he too prayed for its legitimacy, he could not fend off against the screams of his intuition - of how wrong this all seemed.

Dreary sunlight seeped through the cracks of hollow walls, denoting the rise of a new day. Dishevelled by a lack of slumber, Yusuke stared at the dull rays before he roused from his tattered mattress, his threadbare blanket slipping off his body. Mornings were seldom met with joy, for the darkness of sopor was far more preferable to consciousness. Somewhat unnerved by his first chain of thought, the navy-haired man sighed and endeavoured to bury such concepts, instead diverting his attention towards the envelope upon his antiquated workstation. He had not given up on questioning its existence, yet he supposed the answer would be unravelled soon enough.

A raucous growl emitted from his barren stomach as he sought his unfinished painting, desperate to cram in as much practice as he possibly could before his summon. He did not believe in his own capabilities, no less to satisfy the likes of royalty, but if this opportunity truly was genuine, then he must do his utmost. This was their one and only chance to escape their reality, to abscond from a life of poverty and finally achieve the same rights as those beyond the village - all it required was the swallowing of his pride and the execution of a portrait ripe with perfection. A perfection unattainable. And a pride that would’ve made this proposal impossible.

Impossible, because it was the last fragment of him that remained.

Shouting, the shatter of plates and the brutalisation of skin became a steadfast reality for him over the years, and a companion to his neighbours. Yet none raised their voices in protest, for they had their own survival to mind. A self-interest that rendered him abandoned to his fate and sapped every fibre of his being. None would save him. None would pull him from his shackles nor staunch the bleed of his heart, so he, too, adopted self-preservation and adapted to a life of placation, warding off his father’s ire with utmost obedience until only a scrap of his desires remained. That scrap, that last shard was to not vend nor exhibit his paintings until they reflected the beauty of his mother’s.

A simple wish one might surmise, especially since he so vehemently sought and performed other means of monetary gain for their livelihood, so much so in fact he lacked much freedom, but his father had grown obsessed with demanding him otherwise, utterly convinced it would somehow ascend them beyond poverty. His perception was not one Yusuke could understand, no matter which angle he approached it from, and while he was tentatively flattered his father believed his work capable of such, their experience proved the contrary. After all, Madarame himself once secured their income with the sales of his own art, and whilst they did manage a passable quality of life, they never escaped their circumstance. Such was their current point of contention, an impasse neither would budge upon, and whilst the navy-haired man would submit on any other, he physically could not bring himself to over this, no matter how much his ears rattled from all the disparagement or the agony of his contusions.

‘Wait… Father didn’t disclose my paintings without permission, right? He wouldn’t, would he…?’

As a thought of pure dread thrust into his mind and gnawed at his body, the brush within his grasp slid from his pale fingers.

Retracing their exchange, Madarame didn’t seem at all fazed of how the Kurusu family learnt of his craft. He would not even acknowledge it, as if the very question of how was absurd. Profound unease beaded upon Yusuke’s brow whilst he rushed towards his closet, ripping open the lopsided doors. Within he witnessed his wrapped canvases, paintings he believed were at least worthy of the hemp they were upon. An exhale of relief escaped him, comforted by the sight. He had no means to ascertain if his father unveiled them or not, but the fact they still clogged the bottom of his wardrobe meant their lack of sale at the very least.

Yet his alleviation soon laid way for exasperation, resentment at himself for ever doubting his father. Madarame had saved him from a life of unstable foster care, providing him shelter when he was only three years old. His mother had passed away from an arduous illness, one which claimed her life far too soon, and his biological father abandoned them long ago. He was his only family, and yet disgraceful rancour began to blot Yusuke’s heart, tainted his love for his saviour and corrupted his desires, birthing deplorable imaginations of another life: one where Madarame did not adopt him. Every thought was a thorn. Each of these loathsome emotions were beyond shameful, disgusted him to his very core, but no matter how hard he tried to uproot such contamination, his father’s behaviour would continue to be their fertiliser.

He knew, told himself again and again Madarame only lashed out in frustration, distress over their current predicament and his illness, but did he truly have to punish him for his equal hunger? Did he have to gorge every last scrap of food, justifying such with his ailment, whilst Yusuke was coerced to accompany, his plate as bare as the bones the old man threw at him? Did he honestly have to enforce family dinner night after night when there was no proper nourishment to be had for the younger man? If Yusuke didn’t know any better, then he would be seduced by the notion his father delighted in his misery, enjoyed watching him wince upon moldy bread or deny his biological need for sustenance. But he knew Madarame loved him. Cherished him. Adored him. He had to. He just had to…

If his father struck him with his belt or putrefied cane, then it was because he misbehaved. If his caring father screamed insults at him until his eardrums rang, then it was because he was selfish. And most of all, if his altruistic father denied him meals, then it was because he deserved such. This treatment was his own fault, his burden for not being a better son. Yet perhaps this opportunity will change the course of his disgrace, allow him to finally grant Madarame the tranquil life he so rightfully is due.

Motivated by such thoughts, that contentment truly did await them, he turned back to his easel, only to witness his brush sprawled across the carpet, spatters of blue paint trailing behind. The moment he comprehended, he froze, his eyes fluctuating with profound distress until a surge of desperation lurched his shaky legs forward. He hastened, tripped and ripped his frayed blanket off his mattress, hurling it upon the fresh blemish. He then scrubbed and scrubbed with such vigour his knuckles bore his bones and his lungs begged for air. Ragged breaths escaped him as raw images of Madarame’s reaction, of his many punishments penetrated his mind, and senseless apologies expelled from his trembling lips, beseeching forgiveness.

“I’m sorry, I-...!”

Swallowing hard, he endeavoured to calm down, to ease his quivering body before he incurred the curiosity of his father. He breathed in and out, settling into the tiniest fragment of composure, and curled his fingers tightly into the fabric. Prepared for yet even more failure, he slowly elevated the blanket, only to observe the remaining stain. It stared back at him, seemingly mocking his efforts to rid it.

With a curse aimed at himself, he adjusted the blanket and utilised it as a natural cover instead. Try as he might, such smudges would not yield nor be cleansed without some sort of cleaning product, a luxury he could not even afford. Despite all his efforts for wages, they could seldom afford rent, let alone their bills - a fact their landlord reminded at every mention of disrepair - thus environmental hygiene was a concern long discarded. That stain would remain a continuance, one he’ll either have to endure the penalty for or hide as long as humanly possible.

Perhaps he could evade such fates if he left to visit the Kurusu estate now. His father’s awareness was inevitable, eventual, but at least this could buy him some time and ensure he wasn’t worse for wear when he did indeed attend. Arising upon his weakened legs, he staggered back towards his closet and sought to retrieve a singular ensemble - formal garments Madarame had gifted him last night. He provided it as a means of preparation, to seem more refined than either of them were, but the matter which intrigued Yusuke the most was of its attainment, for his father mentioned it was once his wedding attire. He brimmed to ask him more, to elaborate, yet the younger man struggled to muster the strength and concluded his curiosity to be a mere burden. He could not quell it however, as Madarame's potential wife remained a gripping mystery. After all, he has never met, seen nor heard of her existence until now. His father hadn’t even let slip a possible name all these years.

Brushing aside such speculation, he carefully guided the outfit from his closet and gave it a quick inspection now that the dead of night did not obscure. A white pintuck shirt with a charcoal vest, simple dress pants and a loose black bowtie hung from the clothes rack he held, and reigned as the finest apparel within his possession. Reluctant to wear such finery, he swallowed his trepidation, retrieved the letter and shuffled his way towards what remained of the washroom, beginning his descent into a world most out of reach.

Droplets of liquid splattered, echoing off the dilapidated tiles. Blackened mold clung to the walls, and thick grime stained every facet of the bathroom. Such decay begot the foulest of odours, defining this hellscape as Yusuke’s most detested. It, however, was the only place he could attain true refreshment, or at least, as true as reused water could impart. Every utility had to be recycled over and over until it was no longer feasible, for the cost of purity was beyond their means. Life was not always this deprived however, as there was once a time they could bide in relative comfort, an existence by no means luxurious but contentful. A life he hopes they can return to someday.

Stifling his breath, Yusuke struggled to secure his new shirt’s cuffs, adjusting and maneuvering the buttons with fingers so frigid they could shatter akin to ice. All of his ligaments were claimed by a perpetual cold, from his toes to even his lips. Every sensation was numb, accompanied by a dull ache and burdening each of his actions, yet it had plagued him for so long he had forgotten what it was like to be without. Appeased by his efforts, he moved on to fasten his bowtie, only to catch a glimpse of a bruise upon his wrist. The sight was nothing new, a common actuality even, but he would have to ensure their concealment by avoiding the elevation of his hand, lest he risk questions from his prestigious hosts.

Unable to ascertain his appearance without a mirror, he sought the approving gaze of his father and departed the washroom, a small sense of relief within his chest. The corridor creaked, groaned with an age and neglect well below standards, to the point the floorboard often splintered beneath. He paid such no mind however and proceeded into the main quarter, stepping into the sight of Madarame nursing a bowl of bland cereal. A pang of jealousy pricked, but Yusuke swiftly suppressed such wants, then approached.

“Ah, you’re awake…” His father acknowledged with the briefest of glance. “I was going to retrieve you after breakfast, but I’m glad it didn’t have to come to that…”

“...” Aware of what such entailed, Yusuke averted his eyes somewhat. “Thank you for your consideration…” He then clasped his arm, forcing a fragile smile and praying for his stomach’s silence - the faint smell alone a threat to his decorum. “It’s… not usual for you to be awake at this hour. Are you feeling better?”

“I’ll feel better once you secure this job.”

Silent for a moment, Yusuke pressed his lips together. Is this truly what all of their conversations would boil down to now? Pressure, and disregard for any other subject, even basic pleasantries? Or has it always been this way…?

“I… will do my utmost, I assure you,” He promised before he placed a pale hand upon his chest and displayed his attire, his movements cautious. “Do I appear adequate…? I’ve never worn anything as fine as this before, so I’m uncertain if I donned it properly…”

Madarame’s eyebrow twitched as if his question were of some great burden, but his attention shifted nonetheless and he scrutinised the younger man until his bowl interested him far more.

“Your hair is hideous, both from its dishevelment and effeminate length. You’d do well to cut it before your visit, lest you wish to be mistaken for a call boy.”

“...My hair?” Unsurprised by his assessment - for it is one Yusuke had heard many times by now - he absentmindedly gripped a strand and began to inspect it. “While I would love nothing more than to fulfil your request, I fear our scissors broke when I last trimmed yours… Should I buy us another pair?”

A groan of vexation expelled from the elderly man, his hand rising to massage the bridge of his nose.

“No,” He sighed, his voice traced with resentment. “Just go as you are. A simple haircut won’t do much to save your unsightliness.”

“A-Alright…”

An awkward silence then claimed the decrepit room, one where Yusuke blinked around, reluctant to express his mind, and Madarame munched upon his meal, staring at the cracked wall instead.

“Uhm, do you believe I should bring-”

“You’re still bothering me…?!” The old man snapped, slamming his cutlery down upon the table. “Just leave already, Yusuke! Or are you too stupid to realise a late arrival will sour their opinion of you further?!”

“...I-I’m sorry…”

Ashamed to have upset his father, the navy-haired man bowed with such intensity he dazed. Nothing within the letter indicated an expectation, neither a time nor date, but perhaps his swift departure would be wise, both to elude his inevitable punishment and avoid further conflicts. The other half of him found it difficult to move however, dreaded the lengthy trip and the stress of what awaits at the mansion. No matter how he fashioned such coincidences, he could not satisfy his intuition nor quieten the foreboding dissonance in his mind, the sense this letter held ulterior motives. He was tethered by a harsh dilemma, one where each path sapped his confidence and torn asunder his security - an inescapable fate.

Regaining his balance and equilibrium, he settled on the only avenue available. He then turned around and offered a weak wave, one his father did not even care to witness.

“I’ll see you later then…”

He began to tread towards the exit, his legs heavier with each step, until a voice he did not expect called out once more,

“Yusuke…”

Bewildered, the younger man turned around, only to sight a small loaf of bread airborne, hurling straight towards him. He reached out to catch, juggling it in a desperate attempt to preserve before he finally managed to secure his grip.

“Eat that, or your stomach will annoy them just as much as it does I…”

His eyes sparkling with profound delight, Yusuke bowed tenfold. “T-Thank you, thank you so much! I’ll ensure to treasure it!” A grin of utter relief curled his lips as he examined its stale but not moldy state - a joy he could not deny nor resist.

“Now, go on.”

With an ardent nod, the navy-haired man pressed his hand upon the doorknob.

“Oh, and one more thing…”

Peering back, he asked, “Yes…?”

“Don’t mess this up.”

Madarame’s tone was akin to ice, so much so it could fragment any composure, but the worst of all was his glare, a scowl so ruthless it should be reserved only for the greatest of enemies.

“...” Casting his disillusioned gaze back towards the damaged door, Yusuke gave one final reply, “I won’t.”

Darkened clouds smothered the sky, casting a monochromatic hue upon the land, and thick fog stifled the air, obscuring one’s vision. Hurried footfalls surrounded and clamorous voices encompassed, drowned out the thoughts of those nearby. Endeavouring to traverse through such liveliness, Yusuke held his hands firm against his chest, the envelope snug within his grasp. The clash of shoulders was not atypical this time of year, nor thievery, for it was the arrival of Winter’s Harvest, produce provided by charities beyond the village. Their arrival always spurred residents into a frenzy, driven by pure desperation, and whilst their acts saved many from certain peril, it did little to bring forth genuine change. One could not preference their way of aid however, as they were the only souls willing to offer welfare.

The region’s government had abandoned eons ago, instead opting to bury and crush the cries of all those in need. They sought to erase their lives, to gentrify the neighbouring lands and displace them until they had rid or coerced them into undue labour. Their only valued opposition were these charities, royal families or upper-class organisations, and whilst it was difficult to trust in those who ascended with the same exploitation or bore the same gold as their persecutors, the village had no choice. Its isolated population only expanded each passing day, for low income and impoverishment seized more and more, applying even further pressure to a system on the brink of collapse. Their contributions towards agriculture, repairs and instalment of job opportunities were the only foundation left, the only hope they had to see another day.

One of these benefactors were the Kurusu family, a well renowned and long-term sympathiser of the village. Yet despite their many and perpetual support, they, by all accounts, regressed from the public’s eye years ago. Information of why or exactly when was beyond sparse within the village, as were most matters pertaining to the outer world, but instead of completely dissolving upon local tongues, rumours of disappearance took root. Such gossip wasn’t strong enough to incur much attention nor wither faith in them, yet it did resurface within Yusuke’s mind at the sight of the letter. The tale is not one of originality, just a simple whisper of how all those who visit their mansion never return - a caution which now unnerves him to his very core…

A gust of bitter wind brushed past him with such force he stumbled, prompting him to vigorously rub his arms for warmth. The weather was oftentimes cruel, another sufferance and mockery they all had to endure, for not even the huddled crowds could stave off its glacial kiss. Regathering his bearings, he stepped to begin his passage once more - before he provoked the ire of those behind. However, a distant matter, one across the street and over a sea of heads, halted him. Several missing person reports were plastered and fluttered against a brick wall, some torn whilst others without portraits. He gulped at the tragic sight, wishful for those left behind, but ultimately proceeded onward as meddling in affairs of others’ was not a privilege he was afforded. A question of whether or not Madarame would place, or have to, one of him did however creep within the young man’s mind.

Frigid air continued to pester, to reign as Yusuke’s sole companion on his arduous journey towards the Kurusu estate. The distance alone was a burden upon his emaciated body, enough to erode any energy he procured from breakfast, yet the brutal elements compounded his efforts even further, ridiculing all the while. His new clothes did little to ward against the wintry chill, just alike all his other garments, and his shoes grew cumbersome. Puffs of breath escaped his lips, his legs weighed more with each step, and his fingers froze around the envelope until finally, finally his assumed destination laid ahead. A sense of relief instilled within his chest as he began to quicken his pace, yearning the favoured warmth of four walls.

By the time he neared the entrance, he was a dishevelled mess of exertion. He endeavoured to catch his breath, to recuperate beyond the sight of his esteemed hosts, and examined his surroundings as he did so. A tall black fence encircled the property, ensuring none could trespass, or perhaps even escape, and two gatekeepers idled in chatter, clad in what appeared to be a uniform. He couldn’t discern much through the bars nor at this distance, but the mansion was quite vast, built upon acres and acres of land. The view alone was one of fables, an abode fit for the most righteous of princes’; with its pure snow structures and glistering windows - windows as dark as the starry night.

It was beyond difficult to comprehend that this was summoner, where he was seemingly to be employed, but he dismissed his wonderment nevertheless and wavered to proceed forth. Anxiety boiled the closer he stepped, swelling within the deepest pits of his stomach until he had to pause to recompose, ushering himself with the belief nerves would be of no aid now. Gripping the envelope tight in his hand, he swallowed and advanced towards the gate.

“E-Excuse me…” He almost coughed, his throat as dry as a wasteland. “Is this the Kurusu estate?”

The gatekeepers did little to heed him, their eyes shifting to one another before they finally acknowledged.

“Yes, it is…” One of them answered, their androgynous features veiled behind a flat cap. “What brings you here today?”

“Uh…”

Believing words to be insufficient, Yusuke elevated the letter and proffered it through the bars. The other sentinel slipped it from his grip, unfurled it, and they both peered to discern its content, their faces stiffening for the briefest of moments.

“You sure rumpled the hell out of this…” The second gatekeeper remarked, a small exhale eluding his cold-hued lips. “When exactly did you receive this?”

A slight pang of embarrassment struck the navy-haired man, for he was often one to maintain and value the condition of articles, but it seems his unease reigned supreme in this case. Offering an apologetic bow of his head, he gulped and answered, “Yesterday, I believe…”

“I see…” After a brief pause, the man returned the letter. “You may proceed then.” He then extended his hand towards what seemed to be a control panel and cocked his head at his partner. “Go inform His Lordship.”

The flat-capped sentinel gave an ambivalent nod and turned away, proceeding towards the mansion.

Somewhat impressed by their haste of acceptance, Yusuke stammered to clarify his purpose, “Um… I am aware this may sound odd, however, I only wished to confirm if the letter was genuine.” His gaze averted, remorseful of the misunderstanding. “I apologise, but… I don’t even have my supplies with me.”

Despite his explanation, the gate continued to clatter open, lying bare the front yard.

“That’s fine,” The lightly breaded gatekeeper reassured as the barrier ceased its motions, his eyes avoidant of contact. “His Lordship… may wish to discuss the composition of the portrait with you today, and, well… You needn’t worry about supplies, as we’d be more than happy to accommodate.” His voice came out rather disjointed, as if he disbelieved and forced such encouragements into existence.

Suspicious yet fraught to succeed, Yusuke swallowed his wary instincts, murmured a soft, “Alright…” and advanced upon the property. The gate then churned to close behind him, the sound of its mechanism growing faint to his ears. His heart may have yearned to conclude his ventures there, to return home with news of its authenticity, but fate would demand his presence here one way or another, and enduring the trip for a mere question did not seem wise in the least, no matter how he spun it in his mind.

“Please, follow me.”

The reserved man instructed, gesturing forth and leading the way towards the estate’s entrance. As Yusuke followed behind at a distance, reluctant to tread any closer, he strove to calm himself with the sights. A tall water fountain resided in the yard’s centre, its pure aqua shimmering down a statue of a loosely clad goddess, a long-tailed bird betwixt her fingers. Encompassing such splendours were various breeds of flowers, from scarlet camellias to white daphnes. Each and every hue harmonised, radiated in spite of the dreary sun, and stole every ounce of the artist's breath. After all, such tangible beauty was a rarity to his eyes, only ever perceived in tales of utmost grandeur or vibrant paintings, and whilst he wished to savour every facet, the creak of double doors pulled him away.

“This way, please.”

Complying, he offered a quick nod and traversed within, the bitter wind fading from his pale cheeks. Stone then transitioned into refined marble, clicking against his heels whilst his ashen eyes widened. Unabashed wealth - the kind one typically associated with fiction encircled him. He did not even register the closure of doors as his mind contended to comprehend. The yard alone was extravagant, but this… This was beyond grandiose, and a grievous wound to all those who suffered a mere two miles away. Quelling his frustration with a clench of his fist, he began to peer around, a floral scent within the air. As abundant as he may believe all to be, he could not deny his intrigue nor the lull of such heavenly scenery. A large staircase, one carved out of the finest of ebony wood towered before him, and a rug of cerise fabric draped over each step. Even the lights were not without their embellishment, for a glamorous chandelier hung from the ceiling, its shine reflective upon the tiles. Adornments covered and conquered every corner, from exotic plants to embroided fixtures - enough for one to lose themselves amidst the lavish details.

Unbeknown to him, another man had approached - his calm voice a dissolvent to Yusuke’s trance.

“You may return to your station. I’ll handle matters from hereon.”

Blinking for a brief moment, Yusuke witnessed his guiding gatekeeper nod and depart for the exit, leaving him to inspect his tall, newfound associate. He appeared as peculiar as some of the flora, for his hair was of pure snow and his eyes a coral tone. His attire was that of a tail-coat tuxedo, a uniform which differed from those observed prior. Perhaps he were of higher rank, or mayhaps it were the contrary - a butler, perchance?

“Please, come this way.” The distinctive man beckoned, not idling overlong as he began to tread forth, towards the grand staircase. “My lord shan't keep you waiting much longer.”

Yusuke replied with a soft incline of his head, unaware if the man even caught sight, and permitted his eyes to roam even more. Red drapes enfolded around white columns, accentuating the sheer structural artistry of the mansion, yet it seemed fabric wasn’t only employed as a decoration, for thick curtains blotted out the sun. Each and every window was shrouded, perhaps excessively so, as not even a flicker of light pierced through. Mayhaps it was done for privacy, to block the leers and cameras of the outer world, but one would imagine the upper floor would be free of such concerns.

Perplexed yet unnerved by the fact, Yusuke diverted his attention back towards his path and quickly halted before he collided into his new escort. He then peered ahead, curious of why he stopped, and followed his gaze until he witnessed exactly why.

A young man stood atop the staircase, his scarlet gloved hand upon the railing. He appeared of a similar age, a youth which only served to bemuse, for Yusuke had assumed an older gentleman to be his summoner. Perhaps he were a prince, the son of the heir instead? No matter how long he stared, the answer would not arise from vision alone.

The unknown man remained silent as he descended each step, his movements conveying an elegance bestowed since birth. As the distance between the two neared to close, the only sound of heels - the navy-haired artist could begin to distinguish his intimate features. The first of which were his crimson eyes, a hue seldom seen and beyond unusual. They were the purest of jewels, further accentuated by his mesmerising eyelashes, yet why, upon closer inspection, did they seem vacant, alike rubies without their glow? Wavy black hair cupped his face, its unkempt style novel yet complementary to his deathly pale complexion, and his lips inclined in a natural curl. Everything about him was conventionally attractive, soft and refined - so much so it seemed the gods themselves sculpt his every facet. And mocked any artist who dared to attempt his capture.

His attire, however, was another matter, peculiar both in its appearance and commonality. A sable, ankle-length tailcoat draped around his slim yet athletic physique, and fluttered behind each of his strides. Beneath such was a neck-high waistcoat, one of an ashen shade, and golden accents adorned the garment. Charcoal dress pants framed his figure, emphasising his legs, and dark brown winklepicker boots carried and echoed his final steps. The artist’s conception of fashion was rather limited, only ever expanded by tattered magazines he salvaged or the rare visitation of non-locals, but an ensemble of this magnitude was rather mystifying. After all, it did not align with what was customary of formal garbs, at least, compared to what he knew. It appeared quite otherworldly, and the young man’s countenance only gave credence to such beliefs.

Regardless, he was akin to a beautiful, mysterious rose, one which enticed the yearning hold of many, then cut them all equally with veiled thorns.

Regaining a semblance of his composure, Yusuke watched the man conclude upon the endmost step and extend his hand out towards.

“As beautiful as his own artwork, I see.”

He chuckled, quite playfully so, prompting the navy-haired man to rapidly blink in utter bewilderment. Such gestures belonged in a fable, one where a prince wished to court a spouse and stir their heart, yet Yusuke was neither, nor privy to romantical magnetism, thus he merely stared, unaware if he should link their hands or what.

“Ah… Where are my manners?” The youthful man remarked to himself and withdrew his hand, placing it upon his chest instead. “I am Akira Kurusu, the one whom you’ll be painting,” He introduced with a smile, one as warm as his tone of voice, and yet…

It all seemed so rehearsed, an introduction and inflection he crafted to utmost perfection. Yusuke couldn’t exactly pinpoint why he perceived it so, for it was mere intuition, but perhaps his own performance for his father provoked familiarity, bridged a semblance of kinship and assisted in his ability to decipher such.

Too absorbed in his examination of the man, he simply nodded in response - a reply perhaps too ill-mannered and discourteous to his host.

“A quiet one, hm?” Akira pondered aloud, his observation not one of judgement but rather intrigue. He then softly hummed, and encouraged with a small gesture of his gloved hand. “Please, come with me. Perhaps you’ll feel more at ease in private.”

Even if he wished to rejoin, Yusuke’s tongue was devoid of words. An utter abyss. The sheer weight of his circumstance, of his desperation to avoid falter and outclassed environment anchored him to the very depths of the sea. He felt as if he were suffocating, and whilst he tried his damndest to remain calm, he couldn’t help but pray this was all some hallucination, one where his very life did not hinge upon success. Reality was not so kind however, quite the contrary in fact, thus he endeavoured to bury his disquietude and forge ahead.

As he stepped to follow Akira up the stairs, he caught sight of the snow-haired man bowing towards them in farewell. It seemed the two were destined to converse alone, a fact he couldn’t determine if was for better or worse. He maintained a slight distance, one which granted brief comfort and permitted him to disguise his wandering eyes. He imagined a place of this magnitude would have servants bustling about, tending to chores or meal prep, but instead it was as silent as the night. No one lingered, no one chattered and most suspiciously of all, no one even passed by. It were as if they had forbade any activity around guests, a rule most puzzling.

The raven-haired man’s boots came to a halt upon the second floor, near an indistinguishable room, and he moved to open its door, welcoming Yusuke within. Heeding his motions, the young artist proceeded inside after a brief pause and listened to the hinges click shut, the sound somehow disconcerting.

“Please, feel free to sit wherever you like.”

He heard Akira’s spurring voice brush past his ear as he maneuvered around, gesturing forth. Yusuke’s gaze did not remain upon the man for long however, as he sought to grow accustomed to his newfound surroundings. It appeared to be a consultation room of sorts, one where two cloaked white sofas encircled a coffee table. A singular glass cloche sat atop the table, and so too did a tea set, the mere sight enough to churn his stomach. The decor consisted of softer hues, the type to lull one vulnerable, and was quite modest compared to the main floor. Thick, cream drapes enveloped the windows in here as well, leaving only a ceiling light as their illumination. One matter he could not fathom however was the wooden partition within the room, a screen which only served to divide and obscure the sight of the other half. Perhaps a bed laid behind it, one that could mayhaps send a wrong message to their guests?

“You’re… not one of many words, are you?”

Stirred back to reality, Yusuke recalled he was, in fact, not alone, nor was his continual lack of engagement imparting a positive impression.

“I… apologise. This is all quite new to me,” He managed, the timid state of his own voice a curse to his ears. “Your home is rather lovely…”

“Why, thank you.” Akira enlivened with a huff, one which seemed far too excessive for how unremarkable the compliment was. “You needn’t worry whatsoever, so please take your time. I only wish to discuss the portrait today.” He then circled around towards one of the sofas, his hand gliding along it, and sat down. “Although, I unfortunately don’t have many hours to spare.”

“...”

Not wishing to intrude overlong, Yusuke mustered his courage and mimicked his host’s actions, instead lowering himself upon the opposite sofa. His posture was quite rigid, stiffened by the pivotal atmosphere, despite the profound comfort of the cushions. They were akin to resting upon clouds, a softness of utmost and unrivalled quality - one he has never been blessed by until now. Such did little to quell his tension however, nor did it stray his fixated gaze.

He observed Akira lean forth to brew them each a bag of tea, his placement of the cups precise and graceful. The pure porcelain clinked ever so slightly as he stirred them one by one, each with a different spoon. Watching him was quite fascinating, both from his trained diligence and the belief a man of his calibre would have servants perform in his stead. The artist was quite relieved for the pause however, for it allowed him to reassemble his thoughts and prepare.

“Here you are,” Akira said as he slid a teacup across the table, his touch gentle. “It’s a homemade herbal tea, comprised of the chrysanthemums in our garden.”

The moment he inclined closer, a potent scent tickled Yusuke’s nose, one he detected earlier and reminded of pollen. Perhaps it were the mere aromas wafting from the beverage, or mayhaps even Akira’s cologne - a most peculiar fragrance if such were the case.

“Thank you…” Offering a quick gratitude, the navy-haired man enclosed his hands around the drink, only seeking its warmth.

Akira’s expression flickered with pity the second his fingers made contact with the porcelain, so swift, in fact, Yusuke wondered if it were his mere imagination.

“Ah, please feel free to dine on anything you fancy too,” He continued as he lifted the cloche from an assortment of sweet delights.

Various treats were arranged upon a wide dish, from sugary cakes to sweetened tarts. Even savoury goods formed a perfect tower, such as scones and vegetable quiches. The sight of them alone was maddening, for Yusuke’s dire hunger clawed and gnawed, but the smell… Oh, how it tormented him, threatened the tiny threads of decorum he so ever laboured to maintain. He yearned to gorge himself upon each and every, to sate this burning need for sustenance. And yet, a perpetual nausea had plagued the moment of his trip, one which only worsened and spurred worry he would retch if he even dared.

“We prepared them especially for you, so I hope you find something to your liking.”

As kind as those words may seem, Yusuke remained unconvinced of their truth, given they lacked awareness of his abrupt arrival. Nevertheless, he grabbed a slice of chocolate cake and laid it upon his saucer, aware complete disinterest would be rude to his host. He harboured no plans to feast however, for even his deepest desires had lost their lustre to stress.

“...Thank you,” He expressed further appreciation, desperate to distract from the gruelling aromas, “If… it’s alright with you, I do wish to ask a few questions.”

“Please, go ahead.”

Akira reassured whilst he elevated his tea and savoured a sip. His dignified motions not only stilled Yusuke’s focus for a moment but also enabled him to witness the man from another angle, an angle which highlighted darkened lines under his eyes. He tried not to stare overlong, yet the closer he inspected his soon-to-be paint model, the more concerns he noticed. He was, after all, beyond pale, far too so, as if an affliction had drained all the colour from his skin. He also seemed quite averse to showing even a fraction of his body, covered all the way to the very tips of his fingers. Perhaps it were all nothing - the dark circles a symptom of exhaustion and his sickly complexion natural, but it did deepen the artist’s unease of the situation.

“I was wondering how you discovered me and my… talents.” He proceeded with his query, hopeful he’d unearth an assuaging answer. “I don’t have much of a reputation, after all.”

“Hm, don’t you?” Akira mused to himself, reclining back and tapping a finger against his chin. “My servants heard rumours of a stubborn artist, one of exceptional talent. We’ve been seeking a portraitist for quite some time, you see, so such reports piqued our interest until we were led to your village, where we met an individual claiming to have both evidence and information on this gifted painter.” He then gestured forth, towards, “You. They told us of your name, address and even showed us one of your prior paintings, a piece I fell in love with the moment I witnessed it.”

“But, I…” Stupefied, Yusuke blinked, his mind beyond scrambled. Every word, every description only pricked his heart with icicles, shards he had to know the true reflection of. “This… person you met, what was their appearance?”

“I apologise, but I wasn’t present for any of this. I only saw your painting through a photo, and when I said ‘we’, I meant my servants.”

“I… see…”

His voice scattered as his thoughts shattered, swirled within a tempest of heartache and betrayal. There was only one person who could tear asunder the last of his autonomy, unveil his vulnerability and seize everlasting control - his own beloved father. Such was why he was unfazed by the letter’s arrival, because he knew and spurred its existence. He forsook his own words, his promises and carried out the one act Yusuke disavowed - fragmented the last of his trust… But why? Why would he do such a thing, and most of all, what did he hope to accomplish? There was no way the old man could’ve predicted this opportunity, let alone be assured it was well worth the effort. After all, paintings were a luxury amidst his village, a means to happiness but not sustenance, and given the current dire state of their community, advertising such would incur more ire than clientele.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he tried his utmost to abate the ache of his chest and squeezed his hands together upon his lap. He couldn’t be deluged by his emotions, not here nor now, but he did crave to know one detail, confirm if his father truly did value him so little.

“The photograph of the painting… could I perhaps see it? To verify if it truly is mine?”

“I apologise, but I don’t currently have it on hand. Perhaps I could show you later, though.”

“...”

With a subdued sigh, Yusuke elevated his gaze to meet Akira’s, determined to press ahead despite it all. Yet instead of aligning with crimson eyes, he noticed the man staring at his clenched hands, or perhaps his untouched tea?

“I can understand why you wish to know how we discovered you, however… I sense there is more to it,” Akira remarked, his words direct and piercing. “Am I mistaken?”

“Uh…” Caught off guard by the question, the navy-haired man stammered, “N-No, it’s just that… I do indeed avoid exhibition of my work, so I was curious as to who may have shown your servants.”

“I see.” Crossing his legs, Akira pressed a hand to his cheek. “If I may ask, why is that the case? Are the arts merely a hobby to you, or are the rumours of your egotistical nature true?”

“P-Pardon…?”

“During our search, we heard whispers that the reason you do not display your paintings is because you believe everyone’s eyes to be unworthy, that your art is fit only for those you deem pure.”

“W-What nonsense…!” Both bewildered and enraged by such beliefs, Yusuke felt his body surge, but before he could arise in frustration, he caught himself and remained seated. “Such drivel is beyond untrue! I would never insult the integrity of art with such abhorrent mentalites, let alone treat others as props requiring appraisal! My reasons lie with me, and me alone…!”

Gritting his teeth, he strove to recompose, to not let such vile words wound him so. They were fleeting, cruel fabrications which only served to harm, to make those who conjured and spread them to feel righteous. Perhaps they were the reason why Madarame divulged his work without permission, to dissolve such gossip and save his reputation? But as much as he wished to believe such, his father seldom ventured outside, and if Yusuke himself had not been privy to them, then how would the elderly man? After all, this was the first the artist has ever heard of such affairs, and whilst he did not wish to dismiss them as outright lies, nor his host, the more he pondered, the more he struggled to believe their possibility.

Another curiosity also pricked at him, one he could at least express,

“...I can’t help but wonder why you would continue to seek me out if such notions circulated and cast me in a dreadful light?”

“Would you have preferred if I believed them?” Akira questioned as he began to drum a finger against his thigh. “I wished to ascertain the truth - and if the rumours spoke true - if I could convince an artist so stubborn to paint for me.”

“So it was all some power ploy, to see if you could trample out the last of one’s ego?”

As the venomous words formed and concluded upon Yusuke’s tongue, he realised his undue disrespect and launched straight into sincere apologies, fraught to maintain his job opportunity.

“I-I am beyond sorry!” He spluttered, bowing his head with such avidity his forehead smacked against his knees. “I did not mean such disrespect! I spoke out of turn, and for such…I- I apologise with the entirety of my heart!”

His breathing constricted, stifled under the sheer panic as his mind whirled and chastised every facet. His frustration may have festered, swelled from both his father’s actions and circumstance, but that did not grant him the right to lash out at his potential client, a man who will no less ascend them from poverty. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, ridiculed him for every second of tormenting silence until…

“Please, lift your head.”

Astounded, he performed as told, witnessing a hint of pain upon Akira’s otherwise dispassionate face.

“You needn’t grovel so…” He reassured, his gaze now avoidant. “You’re also free to interpret my actions however you wish.”

“...”

His crimson eyes then pierced, unrelenting in their examination. “All I wish to know is whether or not you’re willing to paint my portrait.”

“O-Of course!” Beyond relieved, Yusuke exhaled, unable to restrict nor suppress it. “I would be honoured to.”

“Then we shall celebrate!” The raven-haired man perked up in joy, so much so it startled from his prior decorum. He then stood, a constrained smile upon his lips. “I’ll go grab a bottle of our finest wine.”

“A-As much as I would be delighted to, I… do not drink alcohol,” The navy-haired man declined the proposal, guilty to have done so but aware his body would not tolerate. “Thank you, but the opportunity is a blessing in and of itself.”

“I… see.”

Akira slumped back within his seat, without much grace at all this time. Mayhaps it were Yusuke’s imagination, but it seemed the man was growing more and more restive as time moved on, from tapping his fingers to rocking his foot. He found the movements quite inconspicuous at first, a reflection of the man’s personality, yet this display piqued far more.

Not wishing to dwell on it overlong, he brushed his hair aside. “I was told you may wish to discuss the composition of the portrait today,” he proceeded to speak, hopeful to utilise his current presence and at least make some progress. “Do you have some time to do so, or…?”

“Uh, yes…” Akira mumbled, his voice rather weak before he readjusted and regathered his prior equilibrium. “My knowledge on such subjects is rather lacking however, so I’ll need you to lend me your expertise.”

Yusuke couldn’t help but believe he, too, lacked knowledge, that his experience was utterly devoid, yet he knew he would have to exaggerate his capabilities and reassure his client in order to maintain his fortunate position. He harboured no other choice, after all, not with his father’s expectations and financial hardship engulfing every facet. He had to force this painting into existence, to tear it from his burdened heart, even if it was bereft of the soul he so wholly craved within his work.

An hour elapsed as conversation ebbed and flowed within the pastel room, fostering a somewhat lighter atmosphere. Most of their discussions regarded the portrait, how its arrangement would be conveyed upon the canvas and the logistics of supplies. Yet as time seemed to drift, so too did a particular individual’s focus.

“Now that you’ve decided upon the portrait’s angle, I believe we should begin to consider the tone,” Yusuke proposed, his hand gesturing as he spoke, “The most prevalent are bright shades, employing light to accentuate one’s features. However, on the contrary, dark hues can achieve a similar effect, only it provides a more solemn ambience instead.”

“Ah, right…” Akira murmured out a feeble response, his posture slouched and his heel tapping against the floorboards. “...I believe it would be wise if I entrusted those decisions to you, given your mastery and all.”

His answer was beyond lackadaisical, a disinterest which had become more and more recurrent over the course of their dialogue. He would oftentimes impart one word replies or shift the reins of responsibility, even grew curt on a few occasions. His fidgeting also seemed to swell, to exacerbate and distract. Yusuke tried not to pay it much mind, for the subject at least held his passion and he wished to remain professional, but perhaps a pause or break was in order.

“Uh…” The navy-haired man exhaled in ambivalence, his eyes diverting to and fro until he gathered the courage to express a certain curiosity, “May I… ask you a question?”

“What is it…?”

“This portrait… is it one you desire, or are expected to undergo? I know you said you’ve been seeking one for quite some time, but…”

“...” Akira remained silent for a moment, watching his own thumb press continuously into his clenched fingers. “Does it matter?”

“Well, no, not particularly…” Vexed but, most of all, confounded by his sudden antipathy, Yusuke attempted to reason, albeit more so for his own sanity and pleasant patronage. “I just do not wish to burden you overmuch, so if this is enforced rather than desired, I could reduce the frequency I visit and permit you some breathing room.”

“Thank you for the consideration, but…” As the raven-haired man reached towards the assortment of treats, his expression trembled, quivered with the briefest of discomfort. “Would anyone even miss you…?”

“P-Pardon?”

Akira grabbed the nearest tart, leaving the artist’s utter confusion unanswered until he took a bite, the crumbs cascading upon his garments.

“As in, would your continued visits burden your potential family?” He finally asked, his crimson eyes transfixed as he munched upon Yusuke’s rawest desires. “Is anyone dependent on you, such as a sibling or child?”

Unable to withstand the sight, the navy-haired man snapped and averted his gaze away. Their mere presence was enticing enough, but to see someone savour them so - their sweet, soft, red fruity goodness… Oh, how it tortured him.

“I, um…” He struggled to even muster a coherent reply, his mind too mesmerised by the reignited aromas. “...I reside with my father, however, he is quite encouraging of my work. So, you needn’t fret.”

“In other words, your absence would be accepted?”

“Er, y-yes…” Unnerved by his language, Yusuke began to rub the back of his hand. “It shouldn’t be a problem...”

“Then it would be possible for you to remain here, yes?”

The sound of fabric rustled as Akira shifted, his motions unobserved but disquieting enough to evoke the artist’s gaze. Yet instead of witnessing anything of worth, he merely saw the man pinching his bottom lip with gloved fingers - his stare intense, as if leering at his pale neck.

Perturbed, Yusuke elevated a self-conscious hand upon his nape.

“After all, it would be quite cruel of us to expect you to travel such a distance each day. Perhaps it would be wiser for you to stay in a guest room here, both to ensure the quality I wish for and ease your own burden.”

“I…” Endeavouring to press on, the navy-haired man released a shaky sigh and swallowed his resurfacing trepidation. “I, unfortunately, would have to confirm whether or not such would be possible with my father.”

The artist could not refute the merit behind such words, the proposal itself, yet something about it all seemed off… He couldn’t pinpoint what, but Akira’s recent behaviour and tone was enough to justify the utmost of caution. His response however was not one born from such alone, as he truly was unaware if Madarame would approve his absence or not. An absence he couldn’t deny the thin temptation of. An aspect of him wished for reprieve, after all, to recuperate from his father’s overbearing nature, yet this place wasn’t much of an improvement. Luxury and secrets enshrouded - facts his host did little to alleviate, and only served to fuel his distress.

“Hm? You’re an adult, are you not?” The raven-haired man questioned, biting into the tart yet again - his consumption rather loud.

“W-Well, yes, but…”

“So you needn’t his approval then, right?”

Akira’s crimson eyes penetrated whilst he swallowed, his acts rather sensuous as he parted his lips to lick remnants of the ambrosial sweet. He then let out a pleasurable moan, seemingly delighting in its flavours and mocking all the while.

The sight was enough to impel Yusuke over the edge, his stomach screaming out in a raucous, embarrassing growl. He endeavoured to deafen it with fraught hands, but a single chuckle signalled his defeat.

“Oh? You must be rather hungry,” Akira’s voice spurred, dripped with alluring honey, “We’ve been at it for quite a while now, haven’t we? So why don’t you give way to your desires and enjoy a treat? Trust me, they’re beyond divine.”

The way he leered, the way he even gestured, all served to seduce. To charm one to join his feast, and whilst Yusuke craved nothing more than to sate upon such nectar, he was not one to be courted by titillating displays. All it flared was his suspicion, question why he so laboured to persuade, and flourished the belief he should evade at all costs.

“I, uh…” He desperately scoured his mind for an excuse, anything - anything at all, “I apologise for the unpleasant sound, but such was actually not due to hunger… You see, I, uhm… have a strange and rare condition where my stomach growls at random.”

Even he knew such justifications were beyond absurd, absolutely unbelievable, but his lack of time and unease gave way to no other.

“...” The raven-haired man’s gaze narrowed, pure vexation within whilst he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What nonsense-!”

An reverberant knock interrupted, one which snapped their attention towards the door. Akira then sprung to his feet, so swift, in fact, Yusuke caught little of his motions.

“You know what, I’ve changed my mind…!” His voice raised, devoid of any warmth. “I’ll find another artist! Your living situation is far too arduous to satisfy my standards!”

“Wait, wha-!”

He proceeded to march towards the door, depriving any chance of a response and shouting further,

“I’ll have my advisor compensate you for your time today, but beyond that, you are not to return here!” He continued, ripping the door open so vigorously it slammed against the wall. He then stormed out, clamouring a final warning, “I don’t ever wish to see your face again! Do you hear me?!”

“Wait, please!”

Beyond desperate, Yusuke scurried to his feet and attempted to pursue, only to find himself barred in by another. He endeavoured to maneuver past, to discover why such an outburst occurred and beg for a second chance, yet they did not budge. His frantic vision prevented his comprehension, both of who obstructed and why, but as his raw emotions began to wane, he realised it was the snow-haired man. He stood within the doorframe, staring in the way of his lord’s direction, yet instead of a surmised expression of indignation, one of equal perplexity took hold of his features.

“...” The man remained quiet until his countenance dissolved back to apathy, and he gestured forth, “Please, this way.”

His words were a final nail, a stab wound to Yusuke’s devastated heart. He couldn’t believe his chance of salvation was robbed with such ease, without any warning nor care. It hurt. It stung. It absolutely confounded. And most of all, it imposed questions of his worthiness, if he truly was as useless as his father bellowed. He laboured so hard to maintain his decorum, to quench Akira’s ego, and yet, it wasn’t enough… Why? Why?! Where did he go wrong…?!

As much as his soul yearned to deliberate his future, he couldn’t here. With every fibre of his being, he forced his heavy legs forward and followed the snow-haired man towards the stairs. He was then instructed to wait by the entrance, a directive his mind barely absorbed as he stared vacantly at the tiles.

How would he justify this to Madarame? Rationalise his failure? A failure he could not even fathom the reason behind. Such questions replayed over and over within his mind, rattling and echoing akin to a broken record. Yet no matter how much he strained to reflect, to forage a light amidst this abyss, his emotions were far too dissonant, casting him in the deep, dark, depths of despair.

“Here you are.”

A voice lifted his dim gaze, guiding him to the ridiculing sight of wealth - a bundle of cash.

“This is for your services rendered today,” The snow-haired man continued to speak, despite the unengaged atmosphere. “I also threw in some compensation for my lord’s behaviour, of course…”

Yusuke merely stared, believing the gift to be more of a crucifixion. His father demanded his success, after all, not a recompense. Nevertheless, he welcomed its taunting weight into his hands.

“Why…?” His voice murmured without volition nor realise, encapsulating the essence of his state.

“...”

Silence persisted until,

“Maybe I am overstepping my bounds here, but… Perhaps you should return tomorrow.”

Baffled by such words, Yusuke’s sight snapped upwards to meet his.

“My lord can oftentimes… be prone to certain moods. Rash decisions. So if you truly wish for this position, mayhaps you’ll fare better with the rise of another sun.”

“...” Reluctant, the navy-haired artist swallowed hard, his expression tightening. “But… he told me not to return.”

“Be that as it may…” With a small step forward, the distinctive man clasped one of Yusuke’s shoulders, “The choice is ultimately yours.” He then gestured towards the exit, encouraging his leave.

Yusuke eyed him in ambivalence before he turned away and began his departure, sensing the leering sting of observance at his back. He knew not if the man’s words were trustworthy, if this place was even such, but one matter he could cognise was his need to escape its unbearable and oppressive ambience.

Remnants of clouded sunlight cast upon the dreary streets; the prior hustle and bustle now devoid. The lack of liveliness, of pure energy mirrored Yusuke’s worn soul as he finally mustered the willpower to return home. He had, after all, spent many of his hours in sheer avoidance, both to reflect upon what had transpired and conjure a justification for it all, a motivation he couldn’t even fathom. His emotions may have resumed to harmony, permitted his mind to mull over each and every detail, yet such did not mean he would unearth an answer. The only crimes he could perceive were his refusal to eat and his inability to provide an agreement of his stay, but if such truly were the case, then that god forsaken family were beyond pitiful.

The mere thought angered him, provoked him to seethe with utmost frustration, but what else could it have possibly been? He did speak out of turn prior, yet Akira appeared to have forgiven his transgression, so why? And most of all, why did that man’s personality seem to shift within their last moments together? Was the warmth of petals his truth, or the venomous rancour of thorns? He could not comprehend, he could not understand, and at the depths of his heart, he did not wish to. He harboured no plans to return to such a labyrinth of demoralisation, a place ripe with unnerving enigmas and obnoxious men. He didn’t even desire the opportunity, to paint a man with a shell of beauty but a heart of ice.

Yet as much as that surmised advisor believed the choice to be his, it was anything but. His father controlled the strings affixed to his body, governed his every path, and would propelled him back at their gates unless… Unless he fashioned a shield of deception. He despised to stoop so low, to lie to his own flesh and blood, but if it meant he could ensure his security from such an unsavoury place, he would persevere. He simply had to for his own sanity…

As he began to pass familiar abodes, the lonesome sound of his footfalls echoed upon the pavement, reverberating in the darkened hour. The wane of the sun always fostered a sense of unease, as robbery and scouts lurked, yet this particular dusk compounded, for he carried a hefty bundle of cash - two thousand to be exact. It was by no means a life altering amount, but it was at least generous, especially when one considered his lack of actual labour. However, such weight only served to fester paranoia now that his mind wasn’t a discordant mess, impelling him to hasten his retreat home.

With a paper bag clutched to his chest and currency tucked into his belt, he halted and stared at a dilapidated door of familiarity. A ramshackle house which holds many memories, both those of strife and distant joy. The sight of it instilled the former, fervid dread he battled to suppress into submission and evoke instead a semblance of normalcy, a facade of preservation. Gulping his acute fears, he stepped forth and maneuvered inside the cottage, the battered door creaking and swaying against his back.

“I’m home…” He announced - an etiquette ingrained into him since childhood.

Within was beyond dim, the only illumination that of wax shallow candles and flames of a putrid fireplace - a deep contrast to his prior locale. The odour was not one he missed, for it invaded his nostrils and pained his lungs, far more so than usual. Madarame sat upon his habitual chair, rocking in front of a blaze perhaps too potent and scanning a frayed newspaper, one quite out of date. He did not heed nor lift his head as Yusuke traversed towards what remained of their kitchen, a fact the younger man did not know if he preferred or loathed.

“I managed to retrieve some leftovers of The Winter’s Harvest upon my way home…” The navy-haired man sought to fill the deafening silence, lest it shatter his threadbare composure. “They only had root vegetables, such as potatoes and parsnips, but I believe such should aid for a while.” He placed the bag down upon the counter, careful it did not collapse.

As arduous as it was to reassemble himself after such harsh rejection, he did not spend his avoidant hours in simple idle but rather productivity, hopeful it could distract and soften his father’s mood.

The older man’s eyes finally peered over, scrutinised, until he folded the newspaper upon his lap.

“What did they say? Was the letter legitimate after all?”

Just as surmised, Madarame harboured no interest in any other of his affairs, no matter how triumphant or small. His mind was wholly captivated by the proposal, one now gone and disintegrated.

“M-Mm, it was-”

“Was…?”

“Uh, i-is!” Swift to correct his language, Yusuke almost choked upon his own breath and scurried to his father’s side, desperate to abate potential wrath. “T-They were quite kind to me, welcoming me within their home and entertaining discussions of the portraits composition. They even promised to provide me with supplies, ensuring we needn’t deplete our own coffers.”

Half-truths weaved out and upon his tongue, deceptions he so remorsefully conjured not only to shelter his sanity but also to circumvent a fate far worse than death itself.

“See? I told you of its clear authenticity, but you couldn’t even swallow your damnable pride and believe in your own father,” Madarame mocked, a raucous laugh freeing from his wrinkled lips. “What a merry day this is… You’ll finally be of use to me, boy.”

“...”

Heartache provoked Yusuke’s hand to clench at his side, out of sight, for the only reason his father could be so certain was because of his betrayal. Because he spurred this all into motion - if Akira’s words are to be believed.

Such thoughts gave him the courage to press on, to continue lying to the one man he never wished to. With utmost care, he slipped his fingers under his shirt and pulled a singular bill from his concealed belt, his eyes fixated upon his amused father the whole time.

Calming from his merriment, Madarame finally asked, “Did they inform you how much they intend to pay?” - a question his son anticipated.

“Mm, two thousand in total…” The navy-haired man answered and proffered a one hundred dollar bill, fraught to maintain a still hand. “They plan to pay me in instalments of a hundred until the portrait is complete, then will provide us with the remainder.”

Amidst his darkened moments, he constructed a plan of protection, one which will ensure his father’s ignorance of his failure by pretending such never occurred in the first place. He would maintain a facade of employment, enact the role of a portraitist and journey out each day to a purposeless world, returning with a payment until enough time had elapsed. It was by no means a perfect ploy, for he would have to contend with the cold, hide the cash and validate his hours, but if it meant safeguard, he would tolerate such plights.

“What…?” His father muttered, indignation lacing his tone. “Two thousand…?! Did you just say two bloody thousand?!” Pure outrage amplified his voice, so much so it neared to deafen all those around. He then sprung up upon his boney legs and swerved to shout further infuriation, “Such meagre shit does not constitute as a ‘fortune’! There’s no way that could possibly be true! You’re lying, aren’t you?! You simply have to be!”

“O-Of course not…!” Alarmed by his sudden outburst, Yusuke endeavoured to placate, “As unfortunate as it may be, that is the amount they offered…”

“No, I refuse to believe such garbage! They’re more than capable of providing far more, enough to ascend me from this god damn shithole!” Madarame’s breath strained with each bellow, his chest heaving in utmost fury until his focus shifted, a profound glare of contempt upon his face. “You failed, didn’t you…?!”

Yusuke couldn’t subdue his need to gulp, his body betraying the decorum he so hopelessly strived to maintain.

“Wha… N-No, of course not!” He forced the words out, desperate to defy the dread which seized every facet of his being. “I understand you’re upset, I truly do, but two thousand is quite standard for high-end portraits, especially when they’re the ones incurring the cost of supplies…”

“Don’t give me that attitude, Yusuke!”

An ear-splitting shout cut the very fabric of the air, so sonorous; in fact, Yusuke winced from the harsh volume. The rattle of wood then rang out as the navy-haired man witnessed Madarame rip his cane from behind his chair and slam it into the rotting floorboards.

“...Show me your pockets,” The old man then hissed, the sheer scorn in his eyes enough to freeze one whole.

“B-But…”

Unable to form any level of coherency, Yusuke’s lips trembled. He had failed again, so irreversibly and inescapably failed. Regret coiled, suffocated him, for the mere attempt of absconding his fate was foolish in and of itself. No hope laid at his fingertips, only a profound barren of despair, so why? Why did he even pray otherwise?

He knew any of his following actions would be in vain the moment such ominous words invaded his mind, but he continued to play the part of a hopeful fool, beseeching for a god’s grace.

“...I-I already gave you everything…”

“Then you should have no issue with showing me!”

“I… understand you’re frustrated, but I-”

Before the words could conclude upon Yusuke’s tongue, a raw and reverberant smack seized and reaved his place in the world. Acute pain, familiar and perpetual, then swelled across the entirety of his cheek - the sting alone enough to foster tears. His first instincts were to clutch it, to protect his face from further blows, yet his father would not even grant him such reprieves as he was yanked forth by his vest, his body staggering.

“When will you learn to just do as you’re told?!” Madarame screamed without a semblance of personal space, his venomous spit splattering about. “Disrespectful brats like you rot in the orphanage everyday! Perhaps I should’ve saved myself from your stupidity and left you to fester alongside them!”

Fabric split, ripped as his father tugged and rousted his attire, intent on tearing asunder every droplet of Yusuke’s self-worth. The old man’s assault was uncontested, free to reign supreme, for the younger man’s love was akin to a gilded cage, a familial affection that never wished to harm, even in moments of justified self defence. All he could muster were pleads, his voice rendered by utmost sorrow,

“P-Please…”

The rattle and lurch of his entire being soon ceased, yet it was not due to a grown conscience.

“What the hell is this…?!” Madarame clamoured, his fingers snatching the cash from a belt. His eyes then darted around, frantic to count and comprehend.

Desperate to reason, Yusuke endeavoured to strain his voice out, “Please, I-I can explain…!” Yet all that answered was further agony, the strike of a cane against his shoulder and atop his head as his knees buckled beneath him, gave way to sheer terror. He clasped wherever Madarame battered over and over again, his pale fingers splintering with wounds and contusions. All of the torment coalesced as one, from the end of a cane stabbing into his flesh to the repeated lashes of his skin, yet the pain which tortured the most was the bleed of his heart.

“How dare you attempt to steal from me, you fucking bastard! I’ll ensure you regret ever crossing me!”

“I… I… never-”

Utmost incoherency quivered from Yusuke’s lips, for his voice was reaved by cries of anguish, whimpers he could not subdue nor withhold.

“You’re a selfish waste of oxygen, do you hear me?! I can’t believe I ever poured any effort into you, you worthless piece of shit!”

The constant condemnation began to fade as Yusuke laid upon the fractured floorboards, hundled to protect himself. His senses had given way to fatigue, to a numbed existence, and his eyes shut within a vast abyss, a darkness where time simply flowed without cognition. Deep down, he knew this fate awaited him regardless - from failure or lies, it did not matter. All he chanced, all he granted himself was the possibility of elusion, yet he had made one fatal error: the underestimation of his father’s greed. He had believed he yearned for the same, to resume a life of relative comfort and not one of pure deprivation, but he desired far more, a life of lavishness akin to their benefactors. A life his son would never be able to surmount.

Huffs of both weary and hoarse breath echoed off the walls, prevailed as the sole sound as Madarame slammed his cane against the floor instead. The cessation of his assault denoted his exhaustion, the only saviour Yusuke possessed in such moments.

The navy-haired man remained still, an unmoving frame, for he did not know if it had all truly ceased. Yet as he laid there, listening to his father’s grunts and sensing the blood flowing down his fingernails, a bead of hope spurred his excruciating head to lift.

“I… never… intended to… steal from you, Father…” His voice was beyond disjointed, guttural and strained - much alike his soul - but he continued to toil the words out, “All of it was destined to be yours, I assure you… I know it may seem as if I’m lying, but I promise you with my entire heart I am not… Why would I give you a hundred if such were the case…? S-So, please, I beg of you to just consider my words, even if they may appear as excuses…”

“Tch…” Madarame clicked his tongue, his head shaking in disbelief. “You really think I’m going to buy such crap? Your promises ring hollow when you’ve lied to me…!”

“I-I know, and I am beyond sorry for such disgraceful behaviour…! I never wished to, I loathed stooping so low, but… but…”

“But what?! Hurry up and spit it out before I beat it out of you!”

“T-That money…! That’s all we’re going to receive! I tried my utmost to make them reconsider, yet…”

“So you did indeed fail?!”

“I… I… am so sorry…”

“God dammit!” The old man crunched his cane into the wood, his teeth gritted and his countenance of reignited rage. “You’re bloody useless, do you know that?! Just as worthless as your moronic father was to your mother!” He then coughed, his throat worn from all of his shouting.

“F-Father, are you alright?!”

Yusuke attempted to lurch upwards and upon his feet, but his body could not withstand such motions, thus he collapsed back onto his knees, scraping them and gripping his father’s robe instead.

“Unhand me, you swine!”

Madarame wrestled him off with a single kick to his stomach, the blow strong enough to knock every molecule of air from Yusuke’s lungs.

“I am glad your mother is dead! Dead, so she doesn’t have to witness how much of a disappointment you’ve become!”

Capable of mustering an apology amidst his chokes, Yusuke whimpered, “...I-I’m sorry,” before they defined his entire being.

“You cannot even maintain a job handed to you upon a golden platter, for Christ's sake! I truly can’t believe I bothered tolerating a burden like you all these years!”

Able to breathe once more, albeit constrained, Yusuke sat in silence, nursing the torn skin upon the back of his hand and watching his father seethe in pure fury. All he could do was apologise, implore and pray the elderly man’s temper would wane before his own life did.

“Nothing to say for your failures, huh…?!” Madarame chastised, his forehead beading with sweat and his chest heaving akin to an athletic’s. He then pinched the bridge of his nose, ragged huffs escaping his shrivelled mouth. “If you wish for my forgiveness, then you are to return to the mansion and beg them to reinstate your job.”

Fraught to upset his father further, Yusuke sniffled and trembled to express, “I-I assure you, I already did…” His voice was almost inaudible, lost to the crackle of nearby flames.

“I don’t care! You are to beg and implore them until your damn throat bleeds!”

“Even if I did so, I… don’t believe they will answer the door as the heir himself told me not to return…” Aware such was a half-truth, Yusuke groaned from the sheer anguish coursing throughout his body and wiped blood from his wrist, careful to ensure it did not sully his already dishevelled garments. “Please, Father… I promise I’ll repent and find another job, one that will pay a worthy wage, so please-”

“I’ll just sell your body then.”

Such words, such baleful and laden words sliced the very air, fragmenting every ounce of willpower Yusuke laboured to conserve. His ashen eyes widened, fluctuated with profound stress as a tempest of panic and utmost horror seized each itch of his soul. He did not wish to believe it, that his entire world was at the brink of utter collapse, that his father threatened a fate which would tear him asunder limb from limb yet again, but no matter how much his mind distorted, he knew they were spoken in truth.

“...W-Wha…”

“You’re an utter fool if you believe I’ll trust in you any longer! You have failed me again and again, and yet you expect me to continue caring for you?! To continue wasting my food on you?! How goddamn selfish are you?!” With pure disdain upon his visage, Madarame approached, dug his cane into his son’s shoulder and leaned down to leer. “You will be useful to me one way or another, do you understand?! I will not let my efforts be in vain, so you can either return to the mansion or sell yourself to diseased scum!”

Crumbling under the weight of pure terror, Yusuke reached for and cradled his father’s leg in absolute desperation. “N-No! Please, please, Father! Don’t do this to me! I beg of you, please!” He choked on his own emotions, the unabated distress and agony lacerating his heart. “I’ll go back! I promise I’ll go back to the mansion! I will, I swear it, so please! I’ll ensure they’ll give me a second chance, so-” He coughed, his throat hoarse and utterly torn. “I’m truly, truly sorry! I assure you I’ll behave from now on, do exactly as you tell me, so please!”

No matter how much more he yearned to beg, to beseech his father for leniency, his voice would obey no more. All that spurred from his tongue were disordered mumbles, delirious pleads and gasps for breath - a fact Madarame cared little for.

“...Tch,” The old man scoffed, then let out an exhale of exasperation. “This is your last chance, do you understand?”

“I-I do! I truly do…!”

“Good.” Madarame yanked his leg free of his son’s grasp, his words filled with derision, “Now, go to your room. I do not wish to see your treacherous face any longer.”

“M-Mm…”

Mustering a weak moan of assent, Yusuke staggered to stand, his body plagued by profound anguish. But the part of him that hurt the most, bled and despaired the most profusely was his very soul. His own beloved father’s intimation echoed and rattled within his mind whilst he stumbled towards his sentence, his eyes vacant of life itself. This was not the first time he has endured such ultimatums of imposed prostitution, for Madarame utilised the subject akin to a noose, one he would tighten whenever he fancied obedience. Yet despite their recurrence, of their constant abuse since he was of legal age, this threat resounded with certitude. He had, after all, overheard his father describing his features over the phone and sighted a ‘business’ card, one he was certain belonged to a procurer. A fact which shattered his very core.

He did not even register the closure of his door, of his surroundings as his knees caved in, causing him to disintegrate upon his tattered mattress. His world was one seized by utmost enfeeblement and turmoil, a dread devoid of any alleviation. The only cure, the only reassurance of his safety would be his father’s change of heart, yet such dreams were beyond fantastical.

Curling into a dishevelled ball, he cradled his own body, desperate to normalise his erratic breath. He craved to appear small, as a simple fragment and vanish out of sight, away from all this hardship and heartache. Yet it would not cease, no matter his actions. He was fettered to two lamentable plights, both which will wrest regardless of his steps. One at least harboured a semblance of salvation however, the possibility of redemption and reprieve from such crisis, all he had to do was convince a man of unsavoury ego. A man he’d prefer to never see again, yet one belonging to a so-called charitable family - a quality he needed to not be a facade.

Yusuke’s sore eyes began to close, to greet a favourable darkness as his mind was drained by a discordant mess of emotions. He could conjure a plan tomorrow, a course to reason with Akira - if such were even possible. All he yearned for right now was to fade away, to inhale no more torment and drift amidst the blackened warmth of sopor.