an artist's swan song.
summary: an injured wrist is the last thing you need before art school applications. no one understands your frustrations-- no one but the boy at the physical therapy office.
notes: 6.3k words, fic, author's notes, discussion of acl tears and carpal tunnel syndrome, they/them pronouns for reader but chigiri calls reader miss artist, takes place before blue lock
The doctor tells you that youâre lucky.Â
Lucky that you caught the injury so fast, lucky that you were diligent enough to go to the ER as soon as the numbness in your fingers started, lucky that the damage would be minimal, as long as you were careful.
You stare at your black splint the whole time he talks, tight and itchy against your wrist, an alien weight. So this is what luck looks like?
âYouâll need to do these stretches everyday for five minutes at home,â the doctor says, handing you a sheet of paper with exercises for wrist stretches. It trembles in the air in front of you, before your dad swoops in to take it.
âThank you,â your dad says, clasping a hand on your shoulder. âIâll make sure they stick to the regime.â
The doctor nods, smiles, and wishes you luck, before ushering the two of you out. His white coat blurs like a streak of paint as the door closes and he takes off his glasses to rub tiredly at his eyes. Your hand twitches for your oil paints to capture the scene, but theyâre still lying at home, half-rolled tubs scattered in your room.
âAre you okay?â your dad asks quietly, once youâre out in the hallway.Â
You nod, rubbing at your splint.
âDonât do that,â your dad says. âThe doctor told you that you shouldnât strain your wrist unnecessarily.â
âIâm not straining my wrist,â you murmur, and he rubs your back affectionately.Â
âStill, try not to poke at it, okay?â You round the sterile white hall, and your dad brightens. âLook, a vending machine. Why donât you go buy something to drink?â He pulls out his wallet, shoving a few yen coins in your handâ your good handâ before you can protest. âI need to go to the bathroom. Iâll be right back.â
Your hand hovers in front of the buttons as you amble over to the machine, eyes blurring over the rows of canned drinks and bright colors and happy mascots, before you decide on a single iced black tea. The machine whirs as you slip in your coin, the can slides outâ and then it stills, stuck right against the front of the glass. Of course.
You smash your sneaker against the glass pane of the vending machine, your trapped can of iced black tea rattling. One kick. Then another, and the stupid can still wonât drop. You dig the heels of your palms into your eyes. You canât even get a vending machine to work. Because here you are, in this stupid physical therapy office, when you should be at the art prep academy preparing your portfolio and practicing for your art college exam, but you canât strain your stupid wrist to pick up your brush.
Something thunks against the vending machine. You slowly open your eyes, just in time to see a boy raise his crutches and slam them against the glass, and, miraculously, your drink drops into the open space below with a pleasant clink.
âI hate this machine. It always gets stuck,â he says.Â
Half-braided red hair, slender nose, soft mouth. If not for the crutches and the black brace running down the length of his right leg, youâd wonder if he was an angel, not another patient.
âI want you to model for me,â you murmur, entranced by the way his silky hair shifts on his shoulders.
â... What?â
You slap your hands over your mouth. âSorry! Iâ Youâre pretty, so Iâ I! Iâm an artist. Was an artist? Am?â you ramble, cheeks heating as your words trip all over themselves and the furrow between the boyâs eyebrows grows deeper.
Unexpectedly, he laughs, then points at the vending machine. âDonât forget your drink, Miss Artist.â
You scramble for the can, pulling it out and offering it to the boy. âYou should have it.â
He shakes his head. âNo, itâs yours.â
You turn, slipping another yen coin into the machine, and in a few seconds, you have another can of black tea. âThis way we both have one. So itâs okay, right?â
He tilts his head. âI guess it is.â You consider him again; he really is pretty, pretty enough that your hands itch to sketch him, to capture the outline of his profile. Youâre floating at the discovery of a once-in-a-lifetime beauty, a museâ but the brace on your hand slams you back down to earth.
âI think that guy is trying to get your attention,â the boy says, pointing behind you. Itâs your dad: heâs watching the two of you with curiosity, but waves his hand once your eyes are on him.
âItâs time for us to go,â your dad says. âAh, but do you need a minute? New friend?â
The boy gathers himself, forcibly crams the can of black tea you gave him into his pocket, where it bulges out, threatening to fall. âI have an appointment in a bit. So I should get going.â
Your feet wonât cooperate with you. âIt was nice to meet you, umâŠâ
âChigiri Hyoma,â he says.Â
âMaybe Iâll see you around,â you say, then wince. To see him at the physical therapy wing again would mean his injury hadnât healed. Were you trying to curse him with a slow recovery?
But Chigiri only smiles, a simple act that makes your heart do funny somersaults in your chest. He really is an angel. âSure. See you around, Miss Artist. Thanks for the tea.â
âWho is that?â your dad whispers, once the two of you are farther down the hall.Â
âAn angel,â you mumble, before flushing under your dadâs quizzical gaze. âI meant a friend! A friend. I think.â
âHe seems like a nice boy. Itâd be nice for the two of you to get along,â your dad says earnestly.
You glance at Chigiri one more time, the edge of his face lit in a soft glow from the sunshine, his back turned towards you. What is he thinking?Â
At home that night, his profile still lingers in your mind as you crouch amongst your haphazard piles of sketchbooks and discarded art supplies. Itâll be months before you can use them again, so you might as well take the time to clean, something youâve neglected in the rush for the upcoming entrance exams for art college.Â
Oil paints. Pastels. Sticks of charcoal. Youâve dabbled in a lot of different mediums over the years, saving up all your change just to buy supplies from the art store a few subway rides away from your house. Cheap materials work just as well as expensive ones, and it doesnât matter what you use as long as you have paper in front of you. Your first memories involve you crouching in the living room, a crayon fisted in your chubby hand as you scribble nonsensical shapes all over the white kitchen wall, something that caused your dad endless suffering when he found you.
Your dad did save up to buy you a nice set of watercolors for the art prep academy youâve been attending, and though he only smiles and encourages you to keep painting, itâs a strain on your finances. Art isnât cheap, and your only hope is to get into a public art school by passing the entrance exams. But now⊠it looks like you canât even do that, thanks to your wrist.
Carpal tunnel syndrome.
Thatâs the diagnosis the doctor gave you, an illness more common in people three times your age, brought on by repetitive trauma on your wrist that led to a pinched nerve.Â
Unusual for someone as young as you, the doctor had said. But youâre lucky, because of the fact that youâre young and the injury is light, so youâll heal in a few months with rest.Â
But time isnât a luxury you can afford. You were supposed to pass the exam. Get into an art school. Practice, graduate, become an artist. Your dream, once so solid, has burst like a bubble just as soon as you begin to reach towards its hazy outline. Every second youâre resting is a second wasted, a second that could have been spent practicing and improving.Â
âHow did you get this injury?â the doctor had asked.
Because of art. Because you couldnât stop drawing, because then it would feel like you were drowning in the water. Freelance commissions. Constant practice. Art club and art academy lessons. Youâd forgotten to breathe these past few months, forgotten to eat or rest.
But all of that came back to bite you, in the end. No more art, the doctor had said. At least until youâre healed. And even after that, you wouldnât be able to keep up the excruciating pace you once had.
You flop down on your futon. Your classmates must be in the middle of class by now, honing their skills. And what are you doing?Â
Youâre floating in a small boat in the middle of the ocean, unmoored. No oars, no maps. Just the rocking of the waves, unsure of where youâre going to end up, your dream like a distant land. The shape of it, once rendered real with each stroke of your paintbrush, is undiscoverable now.
â
Itâs only a month later that you visit the physical therapy office again for a follow-up appointment. The weather has turned chilly by then, a brisk bite of cold that heralds the coming winter. This time, you go alone, taking the subway until it screeches to a stop at your destination. In the hospital, itâs the same white walls and sterile air, a place unmoored from time.
âKeeping up with your stretches?â the doctor asks.
âEveryday.â
âGood! And howâs the sensation in your fingers?â
âNot as bad anymore. They donât shake, and the numbness is mostly gone.â
The doctor nods. âPerfect! Youâre on the path to recovery. Letâs keep the brace on for several more months. Keep up with the stretches, and donât forget to lay off of drawing until youâve recovered.â
Your appointment is over, but youâre not in the mood to go home yet. Instead, you wander down the halls aimlessly, nurses and patients bustling by with a purpose. You donât even realize youâre looking for Chigiri until you spot him in the hospital cafeteria, crutches leaning against the table and poking at a plastic bear full of lychee jelly.
âChigiri Hyoma,â you say on instinct, his name rolling smoothly on your tongue.
âHmâŠ?â He looks up. âOh. Itâs you, Miss Artist. Back again?â He unscrews the bearâs head, and hands you a small capsule of jelly. âWant one? My friends brought me this, but I canât eat all of it.â
You rip the plastic lid off and squeeze the jelly into your mouth, the sweetness sliding down your throat. âItâs good.â
He shrugs his shoulders. âGlad you liked it.â The rest of the jelly, you notice, is untouched.
âAppointment go well?â you say instead.
âYeah. Itâs not like I can make my knee any worse. Iâm doing stretches and exercises to strengthen it, butâŠâ
The expression on his face makes you ache, if only because youâve seen it so many times when you look in the mirror: your body, a sudden traitor, and the world you thought you knew crumbling beneath your feet.
The words are out of your mouth before you can process them. âDo you want to go somewhere else?âÂ
Thereâs no hesitation as Chigiri looks you right in the eyes and says: âYes.â
Shuffling out of the hospital into the cold air, jackets and scarves wrapped tight, you and Chigiri make your way aimlessly down the street. He had dumped his lychee jelly with the receptionist with a pretty smile and a âI canât finish all of this. I hope you can enjoy it with your colleagues,â and then you were off down a block of glass storefronts in bright colors. Few other people were out on the street, so the two of you might have been the only people left in Japan.
You keep glancing at him now and again, his pensive face, the stillness of his expression like a pond glazed with frost.Â
âYou said you wanted me to model for you last time. Is that why you canât stop staring?â Chigiri says, without turning to face you.Â
You start. You thought you had been careful, but heâd caught you nonetheless. âUm! A little! Youâre very⊠pretty.âÂ
âI get that a lot. My teammates used to call me princess,â he says, snorting. âThat, and Red Panther. Local newspaper made it catch on, and everyone gave me crap about how cheesy it was.â
âTeammates?âÂ
âFootball teammates. I was the fastest on my team. Not that I can play with my knee like this.â His crutch taps a sharp staccato beat on the ground. âACL tear.âÂ
You rub at your own splint. âItâs carpal tunnel syndrome for me. I would have wanted you to model for me if it was still⊠if I could⊠ah, well, I canât draw for the next few months.âÂ
Chigiri nods. âA football player who canât run, and an artist who canât draw. Thatâs kinda funny, isnât it?â Thereâs a note of bitterness in his voice.Â
âIt wonât be the same once weâre healed,â you say matter of factly, words blowing small clouds into the sky. âEveryone tells me itâs not the end, that I can do something else, but⊠I donât know. I wonât be able to draw like I used to. I can heal, but⊠Iâll still remember what this felt like.â
His face twists into a small smile. âYeah. Youâre the only one who hasnât tried to comfort me, or told me itâll be okay. Because it wonât be. It wonât be the damn same.âÂ
Because your body will remember. Even having this injury once opens the door for your wrist to tear again. And next time, it could be even worse. Unrecoverable, even, to the point where any hope of an art career will be shattered beyond repair. That must have been what it felt like for Chigiri, too, and football.Â
âEvery second spent healing feels like Iâm losing time,â you murmur.Â
He nods. âWhat were you going to do before the injury?âÂ
You cup your hands around your mouth, blowing on them to keep warm. âArt college.â
âI was going to go to nationals,â he says. âYouâre a third year?â
âYeah. You, too?âÂ
âNah, second year. This was my chance to win.â Chigiri looks up at the sky, gray clouds reflecting in his eyes. âI was a genius. Everyone told me I was going to do something special. That I could go pro, and lead Japan to the World Cup.â
âBut is genius even real?â you say.Â
âWhat do you mean?â
âWell⊠any skill can be honed with enough hard work,â you say simply. âThatâs what I believe, anyways. Calling someone a âgeniusâ or âtalentedâ ignores all of the work someone put in to reach that point. People tell me Iâm talented, but⊠I just really love art. I canât imagine doing anything else.â
âI never thought of it like that.â Chigiri spares a glance at you. âYouâre stronger than I am.âÂ
âI donât know if Iâm any stronger than you. I still got hurt. Geniuses, hard workers⊠weâre all the same in the end,â you reply. He doesnât respond to that.Â
The stretch of storefronts gives way to a grassy clearing, a small park consisting of a dirt path and a stretch of trees. âYou want to stop by?â you say, pointing.Â
âLooks like it could be a football field,â Chigiri murmurs. There it is again. That sad, distant look in his eyes, like he doesn't know where heâs going. Lost, adrift.Â
âTeach me how to play,â you say impulsively.
âFootball?âÂ
âTell me how to score a goal,â you say. âI want to know.â
Chigiriâs laugh is a short, sweet melody. âAll right. Letâs go pick up a football ball, and Iâll teach you how to score. Looking for a career change already, Miss Artist?â
âI just thought⊠I wanted to learn more about it, thatâs all,â you say softly. You want to learn more about him, but you bite the thought back.
âThen⊠teach me how to draw,â he says. âHow about that?â
âDeal!âÂ
After a quick stop to a nearby sports store, youâre on the grassy field, a football poised beneath your foot, while Chigiri calls instructions from a nearby bench. He canât venture into the field, not with his crutches, but youâre close enough for him to watch.
âUse the top of your foot to kick! Not your toe!â he says, cupping one hand around his mouth.
âLike this?â You try to adjust your posture, but Chigiri shakes his head. You shift your foot under the ball again, but it wobbles away from you. You dash after it, trying to stop the movement with your foot, only to kick the ball farther away instead.
You turn to Chigiri with wide eyes, but heâs smiling at you, his eyes crinkling at the corner. âI donât know if the football life is for you, Miss Artist,â he says.
âIâve never played before,â you say defensively, retrieving the runaway ball. Once youâre back in position in front of Chigiri, you adjust your posture again.
âDonât look afraid of it,â he calls. âYouâre supposed to control the ball. It listens to you, not the other way around.â
You sigh, then give the ball a tentative kick, watching it sail across the air, curving to the left. âI donât know how you shoot it straight,â you murmur.
âIt depends on the angle of your kick,â Chigiri explains.
Once the ball is safely tucked under your arm, you make your way back to him, flopping down on the bench. The cold seeps through your clothes, and you shiver. Without a word, Chigiri scooches closer to you, until your shoulders are touching.Â
âFootball is hard,â you groan. âThe fact you were able to do it⊠Iâm impressed, Chigiri.â
âThey did call me a genius, you know? But⊠I did practice hard,â he acknowledges. âSometimes, I wake up in the morning, thinking I need to hurry to practice because Iâm late, before I remember⊠my knee. And itâs winter, so thereâs no practice going on, anyways. ButâŠâ
âItâs important to you.â
âYeah.â He nudges you with his elbow. âHey, your turn. Teach me how to draw, Miss Artist.â
You pull out a mini notebook and a pen from your pocket. You always carry some form of paper and writing utensil with you, just in case, and itâs hard to shake off the habit, even with your hand the way it is.
You set the supplies on Chigiriâs lap, and he twirls the pen in his hand as he picks it up. âSo,â you begin, âUm⊠Usually, you have to observe what you want to draw. With sketches, I usually try to measure the dimensions of the object with my pencil, but⊠you can just try to freeform it! Notice shapes. Everything is made up of shapes. You could try⊠drawing that streetlightââ you pointâ âor that tree. You should try watching how light falls on it, too. From what angle? Where do the shadows land?â
âObservation⊠Shapes⊠LightâŠâ Chigiri mutters seriously, and, for some reason, he quickly looks at you before looking away.Â
He begins to draw, his pen whirring furiously across the page. Content, you stare into the gray sky, before turning to observe his progress. The drawing⊠well⊠you canât make anything out, except for a few lines extending outwards of what appears to be⊠a circle?
âChigiriâŠâ
âYeah?â
âUm⊠you should try turning the paper as you draw,â you offer. âDonât just use the pen.â
He flicks his wrist and the notebook slides sideways, but his pen slips and the line curves away. He throws it down in exhaustion. âHow do you do this all the time? This is hard.â
âDonât say that! I think it looks good!â you offer. âItâs a nice⊠um⊠tree!â
âItâs not a tree.â
â... Horse?â You say, squinting at the page again.
Chigiri flips the notebook closed. âYou donât deserve to see my art. Iâm not telling you what it is.â
âNo, itâs okay! You tried your best. What did you draw?â
âIâm not sharing.â
âI played football for you,â you say plaintively.
â...Ugh. Donât laugh,â he warns.
âI wonât,â you promise, and Chigiri sighs, flipping open to the page he had been doodling on.Â
âItâs you,â he says, with a long-suffering sigh, the tips of his ears reddening.
âItâs me? Itâs cute! Itâs really cute!â you say earnestly, taking the notebook from him. On closer inspection, you can make out whatâs supposed to be a⊠neck? And your eyes. And this must be⊠your nose and mouth.
âYou thought it was a horse,â he grumbles, but he brightens at your praise, regardless of his moody tone.
âItâs a very cute horse. I make a very cute horse? Ah, I didnât mean to offend youâ I really do think itâsââ
Chigiri bursts out laughing. âItâs fine. It canât be helped if it looks like a horse.â
âWell.. now that Iâm looking at it like this⊠it doesnât look like a horse. Not at all.â
âYou donât have to make me feel better,â Chigiri says.
âIâm not! I really do like it!â
Something wet touches your cheek, and you look up. Itâs snowing, soft flakes dancing through the sky.
Chigiri holds out a hand, catching snowflakes on his palm. âWe should head back, just in case it gets worse.â
âAh, okay.â You stand, and he grabs his crutches.
âThanks, Miss Artist,â he says. âThis was fun.â
âLetâs meet up again soon,â you say. âIf you want.â
âIâd be mad at you if you just abandoned me now,â Chigiri teases. âGive me your phone number.â
After exchanging numbers with numb fingers, the warm glow of your time with Chigiri doesnât fade, even on the ride home. It balloons in your chest, until youâre filled with light. In your room, you carefully rip out Chigiriâs sketch from your notebook and pin it over your desk wall. Itâs not skilled at all, but it really is cute.
How long has it been since you enjoyed yourself like that? No, how long has it been since you enjoyed art?
You press two fingers against the mouth of the drawing, remembering Chigiriâs face scrunched up in concentration that afternoon, trying to capture your likeness.Â
â
A few weeks later, as youâre slipping on your boots, your dad stops you at the doorway. He tries to smile at you, buttoning his suit jacket for his office job, but it comes off as more of a grimace. Youâve been spending all your time with Chigiri lately, and you wonder if your dad is going to press you about him.Â
Instead, he asks, âHave you thought about what youâre going to do next year?â
âFor what?â You tie the laces, pat down your coat, but something in your dadâs expression makes you pause with one hand on the door knob.
âFor college,â he says. âDo you have any back-ups lined up? I know youâre still recovering, and you really wanted to go to art school, but I donât want you to neglect all your options! Your grades are still good enough to land you somewhere in Tokyo.â
You bite your lip so hard you almost taste blood. âI was going to take a gap year.â
âGap yearâŠ? Thatâs okay, as long as youâve talked to your counselor, butâŠâ His voice trails off in concern.
But art isnât a viable career option. Donât pin your hopes on one dream. You need to grow up, to be reasonable, to learn when to quit. Art can be a hobby. Thatâs what all the adults in your life have always told you, saying it was for your own good, but until now, your own dad hadnât been one of them.Â
You scuff at the ground. âI am thinking seriously about my future, you know.âÂ
Your dad sighs, a quiet, gentle sound. âI know. I know you love art, but I want you to have more than one option in your life. I want whatâs best for you, because I canât always be here to take care of you. Having a dream is nice, but youâre almost an adult. Do you understand?âÂ
âI get it. But Iâm going out with a friend today,â you say abruptly. âIâll be home in the afternoon.â
You run out before your dad can respond, but your hands are shaking as you swipe your card and descend the subway steps, the warm underground hair heating up your face as the train rumbles by. Why is it that all the adults in your life only know how to tell you the same thing? Why is giving up on your dreams the only way to grow up? Because, deep down, you know theyâre not wrong. The art world is unforgiving. Thereâs no guarantee of a good future or even a job. But⊠you thought your dad, at least, would understand you.Â
âDid you get any sleep last night?â Itâs the first thing Chigiri asks you when you find him leaning against a bench, crutches by his side, waiting for you by the subway exit.
âYeah, I did. Iâm just a little cold,â you lie. Chigiri doesnât push the issue any farther, but his eyes feel like theyâre burning into you the longer you try to keep your expression neutral.Â
âDo you want to sit inside somewhere?â he asks finally. âIf youâre cold, we donât have to go too far.â
A swarm of people floods past the two of you, and you press closer to Chigiri, afraid of being pushed away in the rush. You can feel the ache of winter deep in your bones, seeping through the thread of your gloves and coat. The sky is a faded blue, the sunâs light watery.
âAs long as Iâm with you, I donât mind going anywhere,â you tell him, and Chigiri tucks his face into the fold of his scarf, but not before you catch the bright rose of his cheeks.Â
âLetâs just walk around, then,â he says.Â
Most people donât brave the winter cold unless they have a destination in mind, but you and Chigiri wander aimlessly. Just the two of you, chatting about this and that, pointing out funny displays in stores or commenting on the foods youâd like to try when you pass by restaurants with their menus pasted on the glass.
Itâs comfortable with him. Warm. If you had to name the feeling in your chest, you could only compare it to the spring sun. You could go anywhere, do anything, under the light of his smile. Thereâs a genuine understanding with Chigiri, like a language without words.
When you lean closer to Chigiri, he doesnât move away. He raises a hand from the top of his crutch, hovering in the space between the two of you, and when you catch his eyes, he pauses, before dropping his hand and tightening his grip on his crutches.
âAre you okay, Chigiri?â
âIâm fine,â he says moodily, but thereâs no heat behind his words. âI just canât wait until I get this brace off,â he adds, so quietly you almost donât catch it.
You pass a trio of students flying down the street, canvas tucked under their arms and bookbags slung across their chests. One of them pauses when she sees you, stumbling to a halt, her mouth parted.Â
âNo way! Itâsâ whoa, I havenât seen you in weeks!â she says, and recognition jolts through you. Itâs Mika from your art prep academy, and the fact sheâs hereâ ah. Of course. Just because you stopped drawing, didnât mean everyone else would have, too.Â
âHi, Mika,â you say weakly.Â
âI thought you dropped out!â she says, and her friends crowd curiously around you and Chigiri.
âThings came up.âÂ
âSkipping class to go hang out with your boyfriend? I get it, heâs a cutie,â she says teasingly, winking at Chigiri. âAnd here I thought art was the most important thing to you.â
âI didnâtâ heâs notââ you begin, your thoughts tangling themselves into knots. You hadnât explained anything to your classmates, or your teacher. You had quit when your hand started going numb and you couldnât keep up with the pace, despite your teacher begging you to stay on. What could you say now?Â
Chigiri takes a step in front of you. âThey didnât drop out for something like that,â he says politely, but thereâs an edge to his voice. He also didnât refute their assumption that he was your boyfriend, you realize. âDonât assume things about them.âÂ
âAh, of course! I didnât mean toâŠâ Mikaâs voice trails off, embarrassed. Her eyes glaze over Chigiriâs crutches and leg brace, and you discreetly shift your sleeve further over your wrist splint. âSorry. Are you going to go to classes again?âÂ
âI donât know yet,â you say haltingly. âI might⊠take a gap year.â
âEh? But you were the best artist in our class! That doesnâtâŠâ Mika shakes her head. âSorry. There I go again, assuming things. Good luck with your gap year, okay?âÂ
You wave her off, and she and her friends run down the street again, scarves flying behind them. Still, the wind carries their voices to you.Â
âThatâs good for you, right, Mika? Less competition for college! I canât believe that someone who quit so easily was the best person in your class,â one of her friends murmur.Â
âCut it out, Aki! Donât put it like that. But⊠I guess even talented people can only go so far,â Mika replies softly, their banter fading as they get farther away, specks of blurred paint in the distance.Â
You canât be mad. You really canât. You didnât give anyone a reason for why you dropped out, and didn't want to explain the truth: that your body broke down. That you canât keep up. Your classmates, with shining eyes, chase after the dreams that were once yours. Their judgment would have been embarrassing enough. Their pityâ and calculated reliefâ would have been worse.Â
Chigiri grabs your shoulders, his face more serious than youâve ever seen him.
âAre you okay?â Chigiri says urgently, and itâs only then you realize youâre crying.
âI want to draw,â you whisper, tears choking your voice.
Chigiri wipes away each beading tear with his thumb. He pauses at the weak sound of your voice, rubbing tenderly at the wet trails on your face, as he could wipe away your sadness, too. âYeah. Yeah, I understand.â
âI want to draw, Chigiri. I donât know⊠what Iâm supposed to do now.â
âDo you like art?â he says.
âI do. ButâŠâ The shape of your dream is so fragile. Youâve only realized this now, how many people strive for the same thing you want. How easily you could be buried under the crush of artists, lost before you have a chance to make a name for yourself. One mistake. One stroke of bad luck. And it can all crumble apart in your hands. âBut Iâm so scared.â
âItâs your dream,â he says quietly. âItâs okay. Donâtââ his voice breaks. âDonât give up now. Donât give up. You can heal. Who gives a damn if you donât get into art college this year? You have the next, and every year after that. Itâs important to you, right? So donât give up,â he says furiously, but you canât tell if heâs talking to you or himself. âIt doesnât matter what anyone says. It only matters what you want.â
And what do you want? Fame? Recognition? Talent? No. No, none of those really matter in the end. What really matters to youâŠ
âI⊠I want to draw,â you sob. âI want to be an artist. I want to make my dream come true. I donât⊠I donât want to forget what itâs like to love art.â
âThen donât.â Chigiri crushes you to his chest, and you sob quietly into his coat as he clings to you. Are you holding him, or is he holding you? You canât tell. You wrap your arms around him, and the two of you hold each other like itâs the end of the world. And maybe it is, an end to the world the two of you thought you knew, to the people you once were.
âYou really are like an angel, Chigiri,â you say, voice muffled as you speak into his chest.
His laugh vibrates pleasantly through his chest and into your heart. âIâm not. Iâm not that nice. I just donât want you to be sad. You remind me of⊠myself, sometimes.âÂ
You fist your hands in the fabric of his coat. âSo what? Youâre still nice to me.âÂ
âMaybe Iâm only nice to you,â he says.Â
âThatâs okay.âÂ
On that quiet afternoon, Chigiri holds you until your tears dry and you can face him again. You canât be a good adult. Youâll cling to your dreams like a stubborn child and never let go, even if you have to rebuild yourself from the ground up, again and again. When you tell Chigiri this, he smiles at you, and it feels a bit like salvation.
â
A few weeks later, your wrist brace comes off, though youâre diligent to keep up with your stretches, anyways. Chigiri celebrates with you, taking your wrist in his hand like heâs holding a birdâs wing, the pads of his thumb brushing along your pounding pulse.Â
âLet me be the first person you draw now that youâve recovered,â he teases. âDonât I make for a good muse?â You canât look him in the eyes, because your expression will betray you.
The weather warms before Chigiri can walk again without crutches and a leg brace. When he can, he shows up at the entrance of your school after class one day. Your classmates giggling and murmuring as they pass by him. He waves when he sees you, ignoring all the eyes on him. Maybe heâs used to it. You arenât surprised, considering how pretty he is.
âHyoma,â you greet him, clutching the straps of your bag. Youâve started to use your first names with each other, a simple intimacy that makes you tingle all over. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI wanted to see you,â he says. âI got invited to a special football training project.âÂ
âThatâs amazing!â You clap your hands together. âAre you going to go?â
âI donât know yet,â he says haltingly, unconsciously tapping his hand on his right leg. âBut when I got the letter, I just⊠wanted you to be the first to know.âÂ
âIf thatâs the case, thenâŠâ You fumble in your bag and out a square of paper, offering it to Chigiri. âThis is for you.â
Chigiri unfolds it slowly, revealing a pencil sketch of him, mid run, his form blurring as his legs stretch across the ground. Youâd sketched it the day after heâd taken off his crutch, and he had invited you out. The two of you had spent all day together at a nearby park, and when you asked him to show you the football forms you hadnât been able to grasp the past winter, he obliged. Â
But Chigiri stares at the paper for so long, you wonder if you had hurt him somehow.Â
âIâm sorry if itâs presumptuous of me to give you that,â you say shyly. âI just⊠wanted to give you something for good luck. Because I know you can do it, Hyoma. You can keep playing football. I think you look beautiful, sprinting across the field.â
âThen I want to give you a good luck charm, too,â he says slowly, tearing his eyes from the page, a strange note to his voice. âIs that okay?âÂ
You nod. Chigiri cups his hands around your cheeks and kisses you on the forehead. His lips are softer than you expected, and it takes your breath away.
You pull away, flustered, and only now do you see how intense Chigiri looks, the way his eyes are concentrated solely on you. âHyomaâ!â
âIf you say my name like that, Iâll kiss you again,â he says bluntly.Â
âHyoma, thatâs notâ!â This time, he kisses you on the cheek.Â
âSorry,â he says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. âI wanted to do that.â
âThatâs⊠not fair,â you mumble.
âBut I thought you knew I wasnât fair,â he says. âYouâve spent this much time with me, after all. You should have realized by now that when I like something, I donât hold back.â
âI never said⊠I didnât like it,â you protest, and he grins.Â
âThen I can do it again?â he asks.
âNot in front of my school!â you squeak.Â
âOkay, then Iâm going to kiss you as much as I want when weâre somewhere else,â he says, unrepentantly.Â
âFine!â you say, and, in a surge of courage, lace your fingers with his. Chigiri jolts in surprise, and you smile at catching him unaware. âWhat was that good luck charm for, anyways?â
âFor your dreams,â he says simply. âBecause youâre not going to give up, are you, Miss Artist?â
Youâre still afraid. Of your body giving away again. Of not being able to make it. Of being nothing without art. But youâre even more afraid of giving up, of becoming an adult who doesnât believe in their dreams, of losing your passion forever. Carefully, this time. Youâll do daily stretches so you donât strain your body. Youâll go back to the art academy. Youâll keep trying, and youâll keep drawing, because thatâs what you do as an artist.
âI wonât. So donât give up either, Hyoma,â you say quietly. He squeezes your hand in response.
âYouâre braver than me,â Chigiri says ruthfully.
âIâm only brave because you believe in me. So, let me believe in you,â you reply. This time, youâre the first to lean in to kiss Chigiri, to give him his own good luck. Because no matter what happens, the two of you will keep running.Â
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