Work Text:
The change of seasons slip by unbeknownst to most of the world, but here it is nonetheless, laid out before his sunshine-like eyes: the vast land adjacent to their building trumpeted by golden daffodils swaying with the wind; tulips that scream of strawberry pink and brick red and clashing yellow and rose stand erect; morning dew blankets over bent, green leaves—this and those and that shout of spring! Perhaps it is why this season is admired for awakening and beginnings after slumber and rest; now, nature is brimmed with coaxing revival.
Yatora gazes beyond, his mind drifting to the sky. It reminds him of dawn—of Shibuya dawn when his vision is clouded with the blueness of it all; he clutches that scenery within him and savors the novelty and silence compared to its bustling nature during the day. He grasps it, and with a dabble of brush on the water he proceeds to caress its tip over the paper. Eyes wide open with an intensity directed only at the landscape before him, Yatora paints with mixed colors of green and blue.
"If it looks blue to you, then anything can be blue, whether it's an apple or rabbit."
Ah... that blue world. That first light of Shibuya, of dayspring. The feeling nestles in his chest, overflowing as beads of sweat form in his forehead. Not once did Yatora expect this inkling elation to bubble inside of him—for almost a huge portion of his life all that resided in his heart were tamed waves, ironically monochrome and dull in color. The world, as he sees it, needs to be immediately and willingly adapted into. Let the tongue which is only taught of mouthing necessities, mouth it so; consider the map's entirety—of which, in other words, his life—and deem what is reasonable and of practicality. Yet here he was, as if spring also made its way to his rib cage, planting and rooting itself in each bone and vein, gripping enough that it has made a meadow inside of him. Alas, he is spring, growing dahlias.
After a few minutes, Yatora pauses, holding the pencil in his hand afloat over his finished painting. He realizes the entirety of the paper has been soaked with water.
"Why didn't I start drawing sooner?"
And then his senses came back in an almost full force: the morning dew, its droplets falling on the floor. Utashime and Sumida's voices echo in the room and Koi proceeding to join them too. The draped curtains, rustling from the wind. The perspiration evident in his face cause a few strands of his messy, blonde hair to become stuck. His cheeks redden as he thinks to himself of the aching restlessness that comes with exerting genuine effort—and enjoying it— for the first time. It is foreign in his vocabulary, to set aside the front he's accustomed to doing in front of others; how do you do it? To admit, unapologetically and with overcome fear, that you like something?
He has woken up with this feeling along with countless others, and yet he is behind, like a flower blooming after the time it was given to it. He is in a meadow of numerous dahlias, varieties of it, donning bold ranges from pink to purple to orange, stirred to blossom, and he is but a growing one: lagging far behind than expected. But is it not catharsis nonetheless?
For now, he is late spring, yet spring just as so; he has fervor and effort and endurance buried within his stained, vibrant colored overalls—there is joy and passion still, and that is what signifies of spring.