An Ideal Model
He'll never actually admit it, but Yura likes painting Kanon asleep. Yura/Kanon
It's probably the most logical conclusion to make: that any creature that raises such a fuss (and so much hell) when they are awake would only slumber in the most deadening sense of the word. After all, the expended energy must come from somewhere, and where better to take and make energy than from sleep?
And all the same, Yura finds himself surprised when Kanon is curled against the couch of the living room.
Her hair is as messy as it'll ever get, and he thinks he might see a chip ro two on her nails. Her posture is terrible to say the least, and she doesn't look appetizing at all in a fetal position.
Despite these less-than-appealing characteristics, Yura, like any great artist, notes that proud, high curve of cheekbones, that soft swell of breasts, the smooth glide that transitions into the hipbone. Kanon, like every woman he's ever known - even though he still thinks of her as a girl - is charming and lovely and lively at times.
For Kanon, it's simply when she's asleep. Nothing more, and nothing less.
Maybe other artists need to think before they start, but it's the opposite for Yura. He starts thinking about what he's painting after he's started painting. Without any need for deliberation or thought, he's got a scrap of paper and a cow-tailed brush, both procured from the recesses of his pockets, and is charting out the lines of her lashes, when Kanon's eyes open.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"Painting you," he says, honestly, because that's the only way he can speak when he's painting. Otherwise - what if he doesn't paint the truth?
"Oh," is her only response. And she stiffens a bit, allowing Yura to see her jawline more clearly, before relaxing against the couch once more. They settle into some kind of silence, and he was almost about to convince himself that she was asleep again, before the quiet is interrupted.
"You're so annoying you know?" she says, eyes still closed, back still curled, and cheeks still white. "Always smiling and painting things."
"I know," he says - because he does. And even if he could stop, he wouldn't, because there is beauty in truth (or was it truth in beauty?) and he needs to capture the small moments he's privy to. He wishes to explain this, but it wouldn't matter; if she would understand, he wouldn't have needed to explain, and if he needed to explain, then she would not have understood in the first place.
"You make me feel pretty," Kanon whispers, "And I hate you for that."
"You're welcome," Yura replies, finishing the painting.
'Can I see it?' Kanon would ask, except she'd much rather take it. But she's not even given the chance to do that, as Yura is crumpling the painting and throwing it into the air: long eyelashes, ruffled hair, high cheekbones, and all. He always does this, it's no surprise, no disappointment to either of them.
The popping, crackling, exploding bubbles make it so that even the minuscule pieces of paper do not touch the floor.
"Beauty doesn't last, you know, Kanon-chan?" Yura remarks, and for once, Kanon agrees.