Disclaimer: Ourannot mine.
Well this is my 2nd KyouHaru fic after Behind Those Cold Eyes, a humor!crack fic. I'm just taking a break from Anonymously Yours though I hope this'd be decent enough.
It was a steady, unchanging routine.
He would always add new strokes to the finished painting, elegantly framed with gold adornments encased in sturdy glass.
Yet no matter how much force he exerted to dab that paint in a false hope for it to create a stain of some sort, nothing happened. Just like how his achievements were mocked by his father—no matter how much effort he put in them, they were always ignored and looked upon with scorn.
Ironic, though, because it wasn't due to the fact that he wasn't the best—because he was—but those were things his older brothers had accomplished eons ago. He'd always tried to find anything that he was better than they were so he could at least surpass them in that field—but they were always, always better than him in everything.
He lived in their shadow—never seen, never noticed, never appreciated, always underestimated.
And so, even if he could manage to leave a mark on the painting, it wouldn't even be noticed since it would just blend in and become a part of the intricate masterpiece.
So he had stopped his vain attempts of smearing the painting with his own small, small strokes.
No, it wasn't because he had given up.
It would be a cold day in hell before he'd do that.
Instead, he acquired a new canvas. Yes, he would start from scratch—he'd begin all over again. It would be difficult but he'd try.
Starting from nothing indeed proved to be a hard task. The canvas was wide and white and blank and he had much trouble filling out all the empty spaces. Every once in a while, he committed mistakes, mixing the colors that conflicted each other and putting next to each other hues that clashed against each other. It was not a pretty sight—it never was. He'd always be tired and rest for a while. He would sit down to cool himself but whenever his eyes fell to that framed painting, he would quickly regain his strength and return to his work. He had only one goal in mind—he would make it better than the framed painting. No, erase that, it would be perfect. He would make it the best.
At one point, he stopped and stared at his work. He was utterly confused on what to paint next. There were still white spaces.
Suddenly, an arm came out from nowhere. With a paintbrush in hand, it daubed the canvas shades of emerald. The color was beautiful as it sparkled across the canvas. Kyouya looked back to see who did it and saw a man with blonde hair and hyacinth eyes. The man bowed gratefully and left.
Kyouya turned his eyes back to the canvas. As he was to dip his brush onto the palette, two arms appeared both with brushes and dabbed them in orange paint. In a flash, glittering amber sprays of paint littered the canvas. Kyouya once again turned to look—and saw two people, both with the same amber hair and identical golden eyes. They grinned and shrugged casually and strolled off.
It was… quite queer.
Somewhere, he could hear a distinct laugh. It wasn't an insanely maniacal laugh, but more of an innocent, childish giggle.
To his surprise, a small boy with light blonde hair ran towards him, an equally small and thin paintbrush tightly grasped in those fragile, little fingers. He was especially giddy, the smile on his face never fading as he splashed pink tints on the canvas. After, he shouted something that sounded like 'Takashi' and in a few seconds, a very tall man strode forward.
He had a slightly dark complexion and sported dark hair, just like Kyouya. He was the exact opposite of the young boy full of warm smiles, short and flighty as he held a pink bunny closely in his arms—he was exceptionally quiet, making only occasional nods and grunts when asked by the smaller boy.
He slid a hand inside his pocket—and revealed yet another brush and added sapphire shades—those that reflected the same colors of the wide, vast sky that he never had the chance to enjoy being constantly locked inside his room, doing nothing but compute and study, freedom being lost and forgotten.
The young boy climbed onto the taller man's back and they walked away, the little blonde boy chuckling during the piggyback ride.
Kyouya looked at the canvas. It was… exquisitely breathtaking. But somehow, he felt that it lacked something—there was something quite incomplete with the picture. He wasn't sure what, but he knew it did.
His doubts were answered when a short girl with brown hair ambled over. She held an old wooden paintbrush, its edges already curling up. She looked up at him and smiled. It wasn't a bright one, but a simple kind—but he knew it conveyed sincerity. She nervously held her brush against the canvas and slowly applied the paint, cautious with every stroke.
Kyouya stared at the canvas, dumbfounded. He had never seen anything like it. It wasn't a single color like everyone else. Instead, she painted an entire rainbow of hues, the colors flowed gracefully, magically from her paintbrush even though she was trembling tensely, seemingly unsure of herself.
Every shade came to life, many, many colors glittering, gleaming, twinkling, sparkling… It was beyond beautiful and he knew that even if he memorized every word from the dictionary, no word could ever describe it.
Suddenly, several arms appeared from behind him and continued painting. He looked behind him and saw different smiling faces.
Then he realized he wasn't alone.
He was never alone.
They were always there but he had never taken the time to look closely. Now that he had, he would never, ever take his eyes away from them ever, ever again.
Now, there were two paintings hanged on the wall.
One was quite simple, colors dull and dead.
Then there was the other, flowing full of life, finished with touches and dabs of hard work and friendship, every single stroke furnished with sweat, blood and tears.
But he knew it was all worth it.
I'm so sorry if it bored you to death… But then, I love it and my friends do, too… I'm already near to tears so if you would excuse me…