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Kaiser liked Ness’ handwriting. He liked the way he made his ‘y’ end with a curl, or how the top and bottom of his ‘s’ swirled. He liked the way Ness’ eyes shone like stars when he wrote, the way he’d press his lips into a thin straight line whenever he thought too hard.
He’d never actually admit it, though.
He liked the way Ness always put effort into his words, the way he’d sound them out on his tongue, the way he’d press his pen to his lip in heavy consideration; the way the tears in his eyes threatened to spill out whenever he got too emotional; he liked the way Ness carried his words on the ink with eloquence.
Kaiser liked how Ness always made a star where the dot was supposed to be when he drew his ‘i’. He liked how when Ness wrote on plain paper, the sentences would never stay straight, drifting off into who knows where.
He’d especially like the writing in Ness’ plain black leather book, which wasn’t so plain anymore, filled with childish stickers and pink lace. The way the book, even at the verge of falling apart, was still written in, still loved, still trusted with so many heavy words that it probably couldn’t understand.
The way Ness would hold the book, support it, with his own blood sweat and tears, even when Kaiser would suggest buying a new one.
“The thing is practically falling apart now,” he’d say, watching as Ness would always shake his head no.
He loved Ness' devotion to the book; watching his loyalty was somewhat comforting.
He liked the way Ness would always set time to write in the book, to tell it another secret, even if it would never be able to react the way Ness would want it too, even if it would never give Ness the comfort it needed. The spells Ness would write in it seemed to be enough to give the book its magic.
Kaiser didn’t think he’d ever understand, didn’t think he’d need to, because if Ness had everything sorted out, in a torn book, there was no need. He didn’t understand the devotion to such a ragged thing, didn’t understand the love and care it was shown, one wrong move from being ripped into shreds.
He never understood why Ness never bothered to fix it, to sew the cover back on properly, but he’d always say,
“I didn’t pour my soul out to it just for it to be covered again,”
with that bitter smile that never seemed to quite reach his eyes.
Kaiser hated Ness’ handwriting.
The way the writing would start from his wrist all the way to his shoulder, the way he’d cover the words with black cotton fabric. He hated how pathetic it made him look, wearing his heart on his sleeve. He hated how Ness seemed to write more on it than the book he held such undying devotion too. He hated the way Ness’ spells of emotion were spelt out with red ink, instead of the ebony black on his book; he hated the way his arm served as the paper for his poems.
He told himself he hated it because it got in the way of Ness’ full-time devotion to him; every word wasn’t just for him anymore, like a song that lost track of its true meaning.
“Writing is an art, there are many forms of it.” Ness would say, staring at the tattered book left on the counter, his eyes solemn and dull.
Kaiser also made his own art, though he kept it a secret.
His neck was the canvas, him the artist, creating all sorts of shades of blue and purple. His own thorny hands holding him tight as he continued painting his own skin shades upon shades of colors, just to be covered by fabric.
His tears a product of his own masterpieces, showing just how much effort he put in his artistry.
And when Ness would find out, he'd yell,
“What are you doing?!”
Kaiser, in his poetic glory, would simply face him, his heart bare and open, cerulean eyes gleaming with tears, and for once, would have nothing to say.
Ness would write delicate stanzas on his bare arm, and Kaiser would paint his neck violet and indigo.
As they say, painting and writing are both forms of art, displaying emotions and experience like no other.
Painting and writing both come in many forms, no matter how twisted they may be.