I've been in a drabbling mood lately. This one just so happened to be first on my hit list.


Disclaimer: Don't own it.
Chef-d'oeuvre

He was the artist, and she was his canvas. She expressed what he willed, changed at his whim and knew no other way to live.

Some days he painted her envy green. When he sauntered off to flirt with a village girl, groped a rear other than her own, her eyebrows slanted downward on their own accord, and she turned away without even realizing what she'd done. Later, he would jokingly tell her that she was the only one for him, and she knew that, while his lips said that, his artist's brush was painting an entirely different picture.

Some days he painted her tickle-me-pink. He'd smile, hold her hand, speak in that soothing tone of voice she'd grown to love so, so much. Once he even touched her cheek, his fingers like tiny pens leaking crimson ink onto her skin. She would feel heat rise to her face and stutter, not even aware of his hand sinking southward until it had already reached its destination. And, once his palm pressed in on her butt, she would recognize that he'd successfully turned her rage red.

Some days he painted her sunny yellow. She knew of no other person who could make her smile so widely, make her laugh as though she had all the time in the world and nothing could hurt her. He offered her comfort, lightened her mood, made her happy. Of course, one can never remain bright and golden for long, and soon her color would fade into pale nothingness. And yet she knew that his palette never ran out of yellow paint, and so, no matter the circumstances, he could always, always make her smile.

Some days he painted her ash gray. She remembers the days he drew the poisons of the Saimyoushou into himself in exchange for her safety and the moments after where she would sit by his side, wondering if she would ever see his cheerful eyes again. On the days she thinks—knows—that he will die, is dying, she sighs, wipes her eyes, and prays for his recovery. And, even if he awakens and grins at her, her return smile is weak, for she knows that her time left with him is limited, and, when he reaches up to touch her face, he tells her that she feels cold, like stone, like the cinereous color of her current mood.

One day he painted her white. To her, white is perfect. It is clean, without blemishes or discolorations, a smooth sheet that even a furious wind can't crease or ruffle. In fact, on that day, there was no wind, for the first time since she'd known him. In the silence of an empty field, she'd watched him as the purple cuff dropped from his arm, watched as he caressed his now-and-forever-smooth hand with a fingernail. And then he'd turned to her, swept her into his sleeves, and his mouth was an inkwell spilling white all over her form as he pressed his face to hers.

She'd smiled.

White was perfect, and, in that moment, so was she.

And then he'd groped her.

And then she'd painted him black and blue.


End fic. Reviews, criticisms, and opinions would be very much appreciated. Thanks for reading.