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Fall in love with an artist because they’ll infuse color into your world. With words you’re not used to hearing and gestures you’re not used to seeing. They’ll admire your beauty and appreciate your flaws. They’ll turn you into a piece of art because to them, you’re a masterpiece. You’re a song waiting to be written, a portrait waiting to be painted and a story waiting to be told.
—Rania Naim, Fall In Love With An Artist.
When Akaashi enters the art studio, he can hear soft music drift through the space from a door that’s left ajar. There’s a smile on his face as he leans against the wall to toe off his loafers, awkwardly balancing a bottle of Brachetto in his full arms. Akaashi leaves his cardigan and bags onto the only available surface, and pops the wine into the mini fridge, before he moves quietly towards the room that Kuroo uses as his main creative space. The entire studio apartment, all one hundred and fifty square feet of it, is covered by traces of Kuroo’s creations.
From canvases of detailed oil paintings, clay sculptures, wood carvings to stray pages of still life sketches. The space is filled with Kuroo’s heart and soul. It feels like standing in Kuroo’s mind, seeing the colour of his soul take shape nebulously in a physical form. Learning how he views the world through the lenses of his eyes.
Being in this space always fills Akaashi with an immeasurable sense of pride and euphoria. It courses through his veins like a song, soft and buoyant, compelling and all-encompassing. Completely transporting him somewhere faraway and magical and grand. It’s always a privilege to him, to be granted this chance to breathe in the lifework of Kuroo who sees so much beauty in an otherwise mundane, and sometimes cruel, world.
There’s so much beauty, Keiji. Kuroo would sigh, breathlessly and all-consumingly. As though the realisation of the abundance of said beauty in the world has knocked the breath right out of him and wound a noose so tight around his neck that he can’t articulate himself with any more words than that.
Akaashi leans against the threshold for a lingering moment, just so he can observe his boyfriend in his natural habitat. He isn’t surprised that Kuroo’s unaware that he’s let himself in. He never does hear the front door being unlocked when he’s in the zone, coupled by the soft music and the song singing in his veins as he weaves magic. The older man doesn’t notice much of his surroundings when he enters his creative space. Something that their friends and family like to tease him about.
Akaashi had joked once that Kuroo wouldn’t be aware even if an earthquake happens. To which his long-time boyfriend had responded with a smile and eyes so full of endearment that it pierces through Akaashi’s heart and leaves him bleeding onto a canvas that’s as large as the room they were standing in. Of course I’d notice. I’ll be running to find you to keep you safe.
Kuroo is seated in front of an easel, on a stool that can’t be comfortable but the man can spend an infinite duration of time glued to it, only leaving the chair for bathroom breaks or when Akaashi forces him to take a rest. He’s guiding a brush across the big canvas, adding fine details that bring the creation to life. Akaashi’s heart is so full it feels like it’ll burst. He pushes the door open and enters, enjoying the look of surprise on Kuroo’s face as he spins around in the stool to meet his gaze.
The lopsided grin that brightens up Kuroo’s features gets him each and every time. “Hi, baby. I’m almost done.”
Akaashi rubs his palms over Kuroo’s broad shoulders and kisses him on the crown of his messy bed-head while the older man continues his work. Akaashi admires the painting of a winged man curved around a medium-sized orb that he supposes is the sun. It must be Kuroo’s interpretation of Icarus, but it’s undeniable that the Greek patron of hubris wears a face almost identical to Akaashi’s. There are specks of stars in the eyes.
“So I’m Icarus this time?” He hums teasingly, letting his palms smooth down towards Kuroo’s chest, fingertips rubbing against the fabric of his black t-shirt.
Kuroo doesn’t tear his eyes away from his work, but he dips his head down to plant a chaste kiss onto Akaashi’s knuckles. “You’re my muse. You always are.”
That’s what Kuroo offers as his explanation every time Akaashi or anyone else points it out. And it never fails to fill Akaashi with warmth each time. An eternal spring blooms within his heart and he’s a garden of flowers for Kuroo. For the man that he loves more than life itself. The man who paints bits and pieces of Akaashi into every single one of his works.
Akaashi’s parents had been against their relationship. Not because Kuroo is the same sex and they’re both gay men. He has two mothers. Both raging business tycoons and feminists with an aptitude for breaking societal norms. His homosexuality is not something they even bat an eye at. The reason for their disapproval is because Kuroo’s an artist. They don’t see any sense in letting Akaashi throw his life away to tie himself to someone who spends more time inside his own head and arms smeared with paint, than he does securing a stable financial position for himself in life.
They’ve always wanted the best for him. Nothing but the best. Growing up, Akaashi was sheltered all his life. Not in the way where he was kept from knowing and experiencing things that life had to offer. No. He was sheltered from experiencing anything bad. Anything that was deemed unsuitable or unacceptable for him. His mothers placed him in the best schools, hired him the best tutors, gave him the best indulgence of any hobby or interest he had, at any given point in his life. When he wanted to learn the piano, his mothers bought him the finest one on the market. His brief obsession with stars? They gifted him an expensive telescope and a room for him to convert into his own astronomy tower.
They never pressured him to do anything he didn’t want to. Akaashi was pretty much given free liberty to pursue his happiness in any way, shape or form. He could choose to study anything he wanted. His mothers wanted him to be happy and fulfilled with life, not weighed down by the burdens of money-making or tied by the chains of society. So of course Akaashi chose to study public history because it was his dream to work in a museum, surrounded by history and a sense of connection with things that were lost in time and translation.
Akaashi grew up being fed with the notions of how he can do anything he puts his mind to and how he deserves nothing but the greatest life has to offer. And he fully believed it, wholeheartedly. Until everything came crashing down on him when he moved out to live by himself in a high-end condo that his parents paid for and attended university in Tokyo. Akaashi struggled. Boy, did he really struggle. He had no idea how to navigate life on his own. Didn’t know how to handle the gravity of society and how to process the rough, shredding emotions of being told to his face that, No. You aren’t good enough.
There weren’t any tutors to guide you through university. Through life. He felt like a balloon cut loose, drifting aimlessly through a thunderstorm. Moments away from being struck by an unforgiving lightning and sent plummeting down into the icy cold, ragged ocean a few thousand feet below him. He was falling even though he desperately grasped at every straw, hands coming up empty and screaming as he hit the torrential waves. Akaashi didn’t want to fall. Especially not to the bad influences of university students, coping with drugs and sex and everything Akaashi didn’t want to be caught up in. But it was all too much, overwhelming his senses.
So, instead of accepting the offer to be taken to bed by a stranger or succumbing to the dangerous lure of white pills that he was given at a party (that he still kept in a bottle until this day, untouched), Akaashi had climbed up, up, up the steps to the rooftop of his university building on a very cold, late autumn day. He didn’t know what spurred him to climb the numerous flights of stairs. He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to go up onto the rooftop on such a cold day. But when he saw a silhouette of an artist frantically painting the blushing sunset on a canvas with his fingers, like a madman racing against the sand slipping through an hourglass, Akaashi felt like he was suspended in the air. Right before he hit the rocky waves and before he felt the ice cold waters pierce his lungs as he drowned.
He had watched Kuroo capture hues of pink and gold and purple with his cold and blistered fingers. Mesmerised by how he translated the smears of paint into the very sunset that was drowning them both in colour. The very same colours that stained Kuroo’s tapered fingers and Akaashi’s heart when their eyes met from across the rooftop on that cold, late autumn day.
Akaashi realised that he was Icarus and Kuroo was his sun. But instead of his wax wings melting and him falling to his demise, he fell in love instead.
Kuroo tried to win his mothers’ approval. He tried in any way he could. When they had sternly objected that they didn’t want Akaashi to end up with a starving artist, Kuroo had let go of that blushing sunset and blistered fingers. Kuroo did try. He put down his paint brushes and stored away his canvases. He found himself a proper job after graduation. Nothing extraordinary, nothing that his mothers looked at and thought was suitable for a living. Suitable or worthy for their precious son. But Kuroo was trying. He was trying so desperately for Akaashi. And God, was he miserable and it broke Akaashi into a million different pieces to see Kuroo so hopeless and pained.
Akaashi didn’t blame his mothers, but he was disappointed. Somewhere deep inside him, after all these years, there’s still a small part of him that’s disappointed in them. That’s hurting because they don’t see what he sees in Kuroo. That beautiful mind and big heart. That unconditional love he gives Akaashi.
He didn’t talk to them for a good portion of time after that. An entire year to be precise. The first time he had ever gone without contact with them. It was meant to be a lesson to his mothers, who both very quickly realised how seriously he was taking his relationship with Kuroo and how very much real the potential of losing their beloved son was becoming. They had relented, albeit begrudgingly, and Akaashi had done his best to convince Kuroo to pick up his paint brush again.
Paint me another sunset. Akaashi had whispered, pleaded, against Kuroo’s lips as the man made love to him on a dark, stormy night. With each thrust Kuroo delivered against his prostate, Akaashi was transported to the rooftop, bathed in hues of pink and gold. With each kiss, he felt that buoyancy of floating over a never ending ocean. When Akaashi tipped over, Kuroo stroked him through his release and thrusted into him until he was clenching down so hard that Kuroo could no longer move. Kuroo painted his inner walls with his love and his passion. Warm and ceaseless, filling him up until Akaashi was floating again. Paint our love.
And he did. Kuroo painted again and he never stopped. He painted their love in varying forms and each one just as breathtakingly beautiful as the last. All hues of pink and gold and purple. Like that cold, late autumn day.
By the time they hit the three-year mark in their relationship, Kuroo’s creations begin to gain traction in Tokyo and certain parts of Japan. He’s still only known as a small, underrated artist and Akaashi so desperately wished people would stop doing that and just refer to him as an artist. Just an artist. Because that’s what Kuroo is. He can see how much Kuroo battles within himself. When his eyes light up on an article covering his artworks only to have the light slowly bleed away when it’s just another post depicting how underrated he is. He tries to encourage his boyfriend, tries to help him see the silver lining.
“They mean well,” Akaashi says each time, leaving reassuring kisses down Kuroo’s neck and over his sharp collarbones. Wrapping his arms just a little tighter around his middle as he hugs him from behind. “They’re putting your name out there. Look, they linked all of your socials correctly this time.”
And Kuroo will smile and huff an exasperated laugh through his nose before he pulls Akaashi down into his lap and kisses him tenderly, gratefully. “What will I do without you, baby?”
“Probably still painting sunsets on rooftops and losing all your fingers to hypothermia.” Akaashi’s smile is wide as he listens to Kuroo’s loud laughter fill their bedroom.
Akaashi is a proud boyfriend, always. Even though he’s awkward around people sometimes, he tries his best to strike up conversations with strangers during work or whenever he’s sitting in the bullet trains. Just so he can tell someone about Kuroo and show off his incredible artwork. Usually by the end of those amiable conversations, Kuroo’s art account gains another new follower and there’s a euphoric feeling of accomplishment coursing through his veins.
“What got you smiling like that?” Kuroo asks as he wraps his arms around Akaashi’s waist and watches him cook dinner over his shoulder.
Akaashi doesn’t even realise he’s been smiling at his gorgonzola pennés until his boyfriend helpfully pointed it out to him. “I’m just happy.” He answers with a soft hum, the smile growing when he feels Kuroo’s own smile against his neck.
“Happy about pasta?” Kuroo’s hands start to wander. Slipping under Akaashi’s shirt (that’s actually one of Kuroo’s) to hold his hipbone and the other hand slides up to brush against a sensitive nipple.
“Tetsurou,” Akaashi warns but he’s leaning back, pushing his ass against the big bulge in Kuroo’s sweatpants. “I’m cooking.”
“I can see that, Keiji.” Kuroo chuckles into his ear, causing shivers to bloom across his body. “But you look so delectable, wearing my shirt and nothing else. Doing something so domestic. It gets my blood pumping.”
Akaashi sighs, but there’s no heat in the action. He moans as Kuroo’s fingers pinch his nipple, his other hand tightening onto his hipbone in the way that always drives him crazy. He turns off the stove and moves the pan away from the heat. Feeling Kuroo’s smirk grow in satisfaction against the crook of his neck. “You’re going to finish cooking after this because I’ll be too tired.”
Kuroo doesn’t answer him verbally, merely grabbing his face with one hand and kissing him until he feels weak in the knees. Then he’s picking Akaashi up like it’s the easiest thing for him to do and placing him onto the island counter behind them before stepping between his legs to kiss Akaashi like he’s a starved man.
“You’re insatiable,” Akaashi huffs when he’s allowed to take a breather. But again, there’s no heat behind his words. Only fond exasperation.
Kuroo chuckles darkly, nipping at the spot below his ear that always gets Akaashi keening. “I beg to differ, baby. You’re the one who’s always eager to go another round. Begging for me to cum inside you again. Fill you up until you’re dripping.”
Akaashi moans at the words, too inebriated to counter the statement because it’s uncannily true. “Shut up and kiss me, Tetsurou.” Kuroo doesn’t keep him waiting for long. He indulges Akaashi’s request and kisses him until all he can feel are warm hands and silent adoration.
Akaashi watches the excitement roll off of Kuroo’s shoulders as they stand in the very first art exhibition Kuroo is being featured in. He’s only given three spots, and he spent all month deciding on what to showcase. Akaashi thinks that no matter which creation he brings forth, it’ll be a stunner and there are no qualms in his confidence that lies with the matter. They're both standing among a room of quiet spectators. Dressed in their nicest shirts, pressed trousers and loafers. Hands held tightly, fingers laced.
They’re standing a little off to the side, observing people observe Kuroo’s soul. He feels the slight tremors in the man’s larger hand that is held tightly in his. Akaashi brushes his thumb over the back of Kuroo’s hand and presses closer to him. “This is it,” he says almost breathlessly.
“This is it.” Kuroo whispers back, his eyes dark and romantic in the moody lights of the gallery. Akaashi can’t pull his gaze away from him. He’s trying to memorise every shade of Kuroo’s eyes, the way he’s smiling without actually smiling, the gravity of his grip on Akaashi’s hand to ground himself and every strand of his dark hair falling over his forehead.
Akaashi reaches up to brush the strands away, carefully, adoringly. They’ve spent an hour trying to tame Kuroo’s unruly hair with copious amounts of hair products, but the strands are stubborn and Akaashi is so in love it physically hurts.
“I’m so proud of you.” He says instead of ‘I love you’. But to both of them, it means the same thing.
He finds Kuroo asleep on the desk in the art studio. Head pillowed by an arm and a charcoal still held loosely in his dominant hand. Akaashi smiles without realising. He steps quietly into the room and switches off the record player, cutting off Frank Sinatra and his alluring serenade. Then he gently removes the charcoal from Kuroo’s hand and gazes at the half finished sketch of a pair of birds tangled in mid-flight. All feathers and grace and smudged edges.
With Kuroo’s name gaining traction, in the specially privileged world that is only opened to artists with souls too candid for the world of the mundane, he gets busier and busier. But it’s only the tip of the iceberg and Akaashi knows that Kuroo is destined for bigger greatness than these fleeting moments of his art being featured in an exhibition or a post gone viral. Even Akaashi’s parents have begun to acknowledge it. They’re both businesswomen with a proficiency of sniffing out big deals after all. They know a great potential when they see one happening.
Akaashi is glad that after all these years, his mothers are finally seeing Kuroo for his talents. For the magic that he’s creating. One of his mother’s clients is hosting an art fair event in Venice. She wants him to tell Kuroo that she’s reserved four spots for his work, and the prospect that he’ll get a hefty amount from the proceedings if his art gets purchased. Akaashi knows this is a grand opportunity to open up a whole new door for Kuroo to venture through. To put his name on the map outside of Japan. But he still hasn’t broached the subject yet. Unsure of how his boyfriend will react.
He brushes a gentle hand through Kuroo’s messy hair, thumb pressed softly into the skin of his exposed forehead. Smoothing over the space between his eyebrows where tension tends to reside. Akaashi’s chest is warm. As though the warmth of Kuroo’s skin has travelled through his fingertips to nestle into the space where his heart is pulsing with love and adoration for the man sleeping next to charcoal birds tangled in each other. He doesn’t know how long he spends leaning on the desk and gazing at Kuroo while he sleeps. All he knows is that he feels so privileged to be on the receiving end of Kuroo’s love.
Akaashi’s head is tossed back as he moans, thighs trembling to keep himself upright. He’s been bouncing on Kuroo’s cock for what felt like an eternity, his thighs burning with exertion and his hole stretched paper thin over the thick intrusion. Kuroo’s hands are warm and possessive on his hips, eyes heedy as he thrusts up into Akaashi’s limp body.
“I’ll take over now, baby. Okay?”
Akaashi nods and lets Kuroo shift him onto his back without having to pull away from where they’re connected. He feels coarse fingers brushing away his hair from his forehead, feels a kiss being planted there and under his right eye and on the tip of his nose. Then Kuroo’s moving his hips again, thrusting into him at an unrelenting pace and Akaashi is moaning brokenly, clawing down Kuroo’s large back and leaving elongated marks running vertically down the bare canvas.
“You make me feel so good,” Akaashi chokes out between a moan and a sob. He feels Kuroo’s cock respond, pulsing inside of him with every brutal thrust. Kuroo releases a moan as he shoots his cum deep inside him. Akaashi moans loudly at the warmth, at the sensation of being filled. “Tetsu-rou. So good. Ah! More.”
Kuroo’s chuckling. Akaashi feels the sound rumble within his chest from where it’s pressed up against his own. “So insatiable, Keiji. Let a man rest, won’t you?”
There’s a glint in the blueness of his eyes as he wraps his legs around Kuroo’s waist and grinds down onto the cock that’s still buried inside him until he feels it quickly hardening again. Kuroo sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, hands squeezing down onto Akaashi’s hips until he leaves imprints of his fingers that Akaashi will wear with pride for a few days.
When they’re both spent and Akaashi is filled to the point of overflowing, finally satisfied and exhausted, Kuroo leans over him with a camera, snapping photos of Akaashi’s beautiful obscenity. And Akaashi looks right into the camera, meeting Kuroo’s gaze through the lenses.
They have an album of sensual, artistic black and white photographs of their love making. Kuroo’s been experimenting with different mediums to create art. And as always, Akaashi is his muse. They like to look through it together and it never fails to put them both in the mood. Some are sensual and obscure, leaving more to the imagination to fill in the void. Aesthetic close-ups of body parts, blurry movement shots, silhouette poses. Others are downright obscene pornography.
A focused shot of Akaashi’s hole spread around Kuroo’s cockhead. Kuroo’s fingers in Akaashi’s mouth, his legs spread wide apart with a vibrating dildo stuck up his ass. Kuroo’s head buried between Akaashi’s legs, eating him out. Akaashi’s beautifully fucked out face, eyelashes wet with tears of pleasure and passion. Kuroo with a cock-ring, his erection leaking precum painfully with protruding veins wrapped around the length. Akaashi bent over the piano bench, a trail of cum leaking out of his used hole and his neglected dick dangling heavily between his spread legs.
Akaashi’s favourite is the one where Kuroo is seated on the lavish armchair in their living room, long legs spread apart to accommodate Akaashi in his lap. Both of them are completely nude and their faces aren’t in view of the lenses, facing each other. Kuroo’s erection is arched against the curve of Akaashi’s ass. One of Kuroo’s large hands is holding Akaashi by the waist, the other is spreading apart his asscheek so that his puckered hole is visible.
Kuroo’s favourite is a still shot of Akaashi giving him a messy blowjob.
It doesn’t come as a surprise when Kuroo asks Akaashi for a favour to help him with a project he has in mind. They take the seven-thirty p.m. bullet train to Kuroo’s art studio after dinner. Holding hands and stealing kisses like high school students. Both a little giddy from one and a half bottles of good wine. Kuroo lets Akaashi pick the music from his racks of vinyl records. Akaashi settles with their favourite band and Kuroo grins at him.
They dance together to Cigarettes After Sex for a moment. Swaying along, hands roaming and lips searching for each other in between the interludes. Kuroo hums along to the melody into Akaashi’s neck, low and timberous. Akaashi sings the lyrics as he trails his fingers over Kuroo’s shoulder, gazing into hazel eyes that are dark and romantic.
Kuroo kisses him and leads him to the uncomfortable stool. Akaashi notes that the easel has been moved to the side and there are newspapers spread across the floor, underneath the stool. He raises an eyebrow at Kuroo, who smiles and kisses him again.
“Let me make art on you,” he says against Akaashi’s lips, tongue licking along the seams and hands dipping under Akaashi’s beige sweater to run up his sides. How can Akaashi say no to that?
He lets Kuroo strip him until he’s only in his briefs. The chilly air in the room raises goosebumps along his arms and he shivers. Kuroo turns the air conditioner down and brings over bottles of non-toxic, non-allergenic body paints to line the floor with. When he looks at Akaashi, there’s nothing but love found behind his eyes.
Kuroo smears paint over his skin with his fingers, just like he did with the sunset on the canvas, all those years ago. It’s cold and the feeling is foreign at first, but Akaashi adjusts to it. Only huffing slightly in amusement when something tickles. Kuroo’s easily distracted for once. Breaking away from his work to kiss the breath out of Akaashi. He leaves handprints on Akaashi’s cheek, jaw and neck, from where he holds him when he kisses him.
Kuroo sits back, an eternity later, to gaze at his masterpiece with an enchanted look in his eyes and mouth parted at the beauty before him. Akaashi is a deity, an angel, a mythological being reincarnated through the careful hands of God. He is a collection of effortless beauty, of willowy smiles and colours of pink and gold and purple. Like the sunset of a cold, late autumn day.
“You’re my muse, Keiji.” Kuroo says, eyes and voice soft. But what Akaashi hears is ‘I love you’ and he blinks away the emotions from his eyes to accept Kuroo’s kiss, hands clutching onto a black t-shirt.
The pictures of Akaashi with an abstract sunset painted on his body is what finally puts Kuroo’s name onto the map of the world.
They stand together at Kuroo’s solo exhibition in London. Hands held tightly, fingers entwined. Gazing up at the large print of Akaashi, eyes closed and head tipped back, wearing the sunset of a cold, late autumn day on his bare body. Hues of pink and gold and purple. Kuroo’s handprints cupping his face. “This is it,” Akaashi says breathlessly, squeezing his fiancé’s hand.
“This is it,” Kuroo whispers back, looking at the love of his life with tenderness behind his gaze. Akaashi smiles, the tears escaping his eyes at the action.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, nebulous and obscure, Akaashi remembers reading a quote that he can no longer recall where he ever saw it from. But it goes a little something like this. If an artist falls in love with you, you can never die. And Kuroo has immortalised Akaashi in every one of his creations. Bits and pieces of Akaashi, abstract or whole or intangible, live on through Kuroo’s art. And so does their love.