Chapter Text
Shoyou flicks his wrist with finality as the last sunbeam cuts across the canvas. He admires his work for all but two minutes before he removes it from the easel with a sigh. It’s never quite right; nothing he ever makes is ever quite right. Something is missing, but he’s not sure what.
The weather outside is gorgeous, possibly perfect, and the picturesque little glade in the middle of the forest with its bright white daisies in full bloom is perhaps the ideal motif. As the sun shines on, Shoyou can’t help but compare its delicate rays to the jagged, uneven streaks of pale yellow on the canvas in his lap. He’s been struggling, lately, with this horrible artblock that refuses to go away no matter what he does. Ukai-sensei said it’s natural, that feeling like you suck is part of the process and indicative of growth, but he can’t help but feel like nothing he creates is ever good enough. It doesn’t spark that fire within him the way art once used to. Maybe school has burned him out. Maybe his parents were right and pursuing a career in art was a foolish choice. He ponders this as he packs away the last of his supplies but just as he’s about to leave a noise cuts through the silence of the forest.
A violin.
It’s slow and melodic–like the rocking of waves on a cloudy day–and as though the music could halt time everything around him slows. The sun, previously carved out of a bright, blue sky, shies away behind pale clouds thick as bushes. The wind stills, all insects go quiet, and a shiver crawls its way up Shoyou’s spine.
His feet carry him towards the beautiful song all on their own. He’s not aware of it himself, not actively making the choice to follow, but a hook has been attached to the tender flesh of his heart and he fears he wouldn’t be able to resist the violin’s call either way.
The song takes him further and further into the forest until the glade is but a distant memory somewhere far behind him. The last rays of the sun, peeking through from between cracks in the clouds above, guide his way towards another opening. It’s only then, with his toes dipped in icy water, that he realises he’s about to walk into a lake. With his breath in his throat he takes it all in—the crystal clear water, the rushing waterfall, and the man standing underneath it.
He’s tall, even from a distance Shoyou can tell as much, and devastatingly beautiful where he stands just at the edge of where the water is crashing down, leaning his long body against a nearby rock and playing on his violin.
Naked.
Heat engulfs him instantly. Artist or not, used to it or otherwise, Shoyou never learned how to behave normally around naked people; because people are beautiful and Shoyou is in love with everyone he meets. But this? This… person? Something about him isn’t like anyone Shoyou has ever met. Comparing him to models wouldn’t be fair either. Saying he’s otherworldly, celestial, would be more appropriate but even then… something about him pulls at Shoyou like a single point of light in the deep, dark waters. Something as far detached from anything religious as possible.
His skin, sunkissed and even everywhere, is only further proof that clothes are a mere suggestion to this person. Shoyou follows every line, every curve of his body like a man starving and for a moment thinks to himself that perhaps this is who David was based on. Shiny black hair frames high cheekbones and serious eyebrows. Pursed lips, pink and plump, move slowly and carefully over every quiet little hum. It looks like he’s singing along to a song only he knows and only he can hear.
Shoyou watches pink lips and slender fingers shape and contort the air around him into something living and breathing for what feels like an eternity until it finally stops. It’s only then he dares to look up and into eyes that stole the sky he so carefully tried to replicate moments ago. Or perhaps it’s been hours?
“Are you deaf or something?” the stranger asks.
Shoyou’s entire body jumpstarts like he’s been abruptly woken from a nap. His heartrate spikes with such ferocity he can feel it all the way out in his fingertips.
“Huh?” is the most eloquent reply he can manage to squeak out.
He’s not sure what that was just now, but he sure as hell wasn’t expecting the beautiful stranger to ask him that.
“I’m not—why would you think I’m deaf?” he says, keenly aware of the other’s state of undress and doing his absolute best to not let his eyes fall lower.
The handsome stranger puts down his instrument and scoffs. The scowl never leaves his face. “You didn’t react. To my song. Is it not good enough for you?” he says.
Shoyou’s eyebrows crawl up into his hairline. “Not good enough? Are you joking? I think–I thought it was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard but then you had to go and ruin it by being rude!” he says, stomping his foot on the slippery rock beneath his feet.
And who would have guessed that it would be a fatal mistake, for one moment Shoyou is horizontal and the next he’s flailing in the air, trying not to fall and smash his fragile skull against the rocky formations. He succeeds in not dying, but ends up taking an impromptu swim instead.
The water is cold as ice and Shoyou’s teeth begin to shatter even as he’s flailing about, desperately looking for something to hold onto. He’s not exactly a bad swimmer, but swimming with a bag larger than his torso full of art supplies and clothes on is not exactly easy. He’s reaching for a nearby rock when he feels arms around him, lifting him up and out of the water. They’re warm, unreasonably warm considering they belong to the naked stranger, and surprisingly gentle as they put him down on the edge of the lake.
He’s so much closer now, eyes blue like the deep ocean now so close Shoyou can count every individual lash and every tiny little beauty mark. He’s found three so far. One in the corner of his bottom lip, one underneath his brow and one–the biggest one–at the juncture where neck meets jaw. The stranger laughs and Shoyou is once again snapped out of it.
“I didn’t expect them to be so deep,” he says.
“What?”
“It–! I didn’t expect it to be so deep! The water!” he corrects, cheeks ablaze underneath that thieving gaze.
The warmth of his hands on him never leave him, and Shoyou belatedly realizes that he’s still holding him, torso caged in between his thighs. Shoyou is not cold anymore. He’s shivering, but not cold.
“Yes, I made it so,” he tells Shoyou.
Shoyou tilts his head at him. “What do you mean made it?”
The stranger shrugs. “I made it deep so it would engulf you, but I didn’t expect you to jump in willingly,” he confesses.
Shoyou startles and thinks about the situation. Him, alone in the depth of the forest, possibly lost, with a strange man and a song so captivating it nearly lured him to his death. Nearly. But then…
“Why’d you save me?”
“Hm?”
“If the goal was to kill me all along,” he says, “Why would you help me up?”
“You’re interesting, I guess.”
“You guess?”
The stranger nods.
Shoyou searches in his gaze but finds nothing. No warmth, no coldness. Just an ell-expansive nothing. The type of nothing you’d find staring back at you at night, from that dark corner in your room. The type of nothing you’d head in the rustle of leaves or the howling of wolves.
“You’re not like me.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question.
“I’m not like anyone,” the stranger admits.
Shoyou thinks about the music, the nudity, the icy water and warm hands, and comes to the conclusion he’s dealing with something outside of his realm of reasoning. Something pagan and ancient that shouldn’t be disturbed. He knows his eyes betray him even as they actively wander the toned chest and beautiful face in front of him, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He should be scared, but all he feels in that moment is a fascination and admiration so bright it warms him from his core like magma.
“What’s your name?” he asks breathlessly.
The stranger hums again, lingering, teasing Shoyou with a reply.
“You may call me Tobio,” he says.
“Tobio? That’s an awfully…cute name for someone–thing like you.”
Tobio cocks his chin at him in defiance. “Yeah? And enlighten me, human, what sort of incredibly fitting name do you possess?”
Shoyou giggles at the ridiculous phrasing. “Shoyou,” he finally says, unsure if he’s putting his foot in his mouth by giving this entity his full name, but goes on anyway. “Hinata Shoyou.”
As Tobio squints at him Shoyou can only think to himself that if this is truly the end, if this is how he perishes–pressed between a rock and a soft, warm place–he’ll perish happy and content.
Boldly, as though they’ve known each other for a lifetime, Shoyou wraps his arms lazily around a pair of broad shoulders and watches as Tobio’s expression shifts. Something in those nothing-eyes blinks into existence and his demeanor changes.
“I guess…” he says, eyes falling to Shoyo’s lips, “I guess it does suit you, spitfire.”
Shoyou’s smile wobbles and goosebumps rise along his arms at the nickname. He could listen to that dark, melodious voice speak to him all day without getting tired. But he has other ideas.
Shoyou, you see, is an artist first and foremost.
Just as their lips are about to connect, Shoyou breaks the spell with a carefully placed fingertip.
“Let me paint you,” he whispers to him.
Tobio doesn’t move away immediately, but when he does the unimpressed, stale expression from before if back.
“You want to paint me.”
“Mh-hm!”
“With what supplies?” he says and points to the bag still attached to his torso and hanging, limply, by his side on the moist rock. His easel and all his paper are no doubt ruined but his paints are oil-based and he’s sure he closed at least a few of them properly.
“I can make it work,” he says.
Tobio’s eyes widen at that. “How?”
He levels him with a mischievous grin. “You’d have to let me paint you first to know,” he says and winks. ”I have my ways.”
Tobio regards him for a moment then sighs. ”Okay. I will do it. But on one condition.”
In Shoyou’s ears the dull click of a lock turning echoes, but he finds himself unable and unwilling to care.
”Anything you want,” he says.
"Näcken" by Ersnt Josephson (1882)