Work Text:
Now.
“Tell me what it’s like,” Shuugo says, leaning forward in his chair to be closer to the roiling fire. It’s early, though he only knows that from the ticking of the clock. But he can almost imagine the pinkish drops of sunlight scattered across the floor of Atsumu’s studio, dawn kissing him tender.
“Warm,” Atsumu replies, and all he hears is a sigh, centuries deep, as Shuugo chases memories.
Then.
“If I’m bein’ honest,” Atsumu cuts in, interrupting Osamu when he starts on his usual rant about the paintings of ‘old, ancient, rich bastards’ in the museum, “I’d probably be makin’ a lot more money as a portrait artist. So I get it, yanno?”
He can’t help but feel a camaraderie with these artists of old, painting the wealthy for scraps of their fortune; recording them in history eternal, to be hung in storied halls, while they themselves faded away to be nothing more than names on a placard. For the one they’re in front of now, there’s a distant crowd behind the sitting patriarch; the town he lorded over, maybe, fêteing in momentary joy while their master indulged. In those shadows, those blurry shapes, that’s where people like him and his brother remained.
“So why aren’t ya doin’ that, then?” Osamu grumbles. “Ya can’t keep moochin’ meals off of me, you’re too old for that.”
In the middle distance, there’s a tantalizing figure; tall, dressed in dark clothes like he’s sucking up all the night. His face is obscured, but Atsumu can’t help but feel drawn to him, to the mystery.
“I got tired of paintin’ faces after starin’ at someone’s ugly mug my whole life.” Atsumu makes sure to move out of spitting distance before the insult clicks to Osamu, though he’s definitely going to pay for that some other way.
(Maybe he’ll make his next onigiri with stale rice.
Nah.
There’s no way Osamu would be that cruel, right?)
Atsumu’s body of work rarely contains people; though portraits were fine, and people were dandy, the sky has always been much more interesting to him. He loves to paint sunrises especially. Always felt drawn to them, waking up early on volleyball trips to sketch them in his journals. They make this dull world so beautiful, casting mundane streets in colors like burnished gold, making that wealthy immortality feel attainable, just for a second.
It’s not ‘Samu’s fault he didn’t quite understand; he’s too busy chasing different stars.
Dear Miya Atsumu,
As a long-time admirer of your work, and as someone who cares deeply to support the arts — and artists — in these trying times, I was wondering if you would entertain an honest proposal.
The letter comes as a shock.
“Who even writes letters, anymore, Aran? I thought that died out in the 90s, like telegrams and vinyl records!”
Aran grits his teeth, a knot forming in his forehead. “Tsumu. When do you think telegrams stopped being widely used — No, nevermind. Don’t answer that. There are dozens of people writin’ letters in this day and age. There’s a stationery renaissance happenin’, and you’re just insulin’ the work they’re doin’. Here, let me find ya a letter opener for that — You’re already rippin’ it open. Ya don’t care, do ya?”
Could you blame him? The letter is tantalizing on its own; hand-delivered by an eager courier, rolled in a little tube and sealed with wax. Not the kind of thing you risked getting crushed in the mail. On the little gold and black wax seal, you can just make out the shape of some furry creature, teeth bared. It feels thick; like rich bastard paper, the kinds those men in those portraits might use.
And as for the contents?
“Huh,” Atsumu says, because what else could he say?
“Gimme that — “ Aran rips it from his fingers; he always liked to pretend he wasn’t as feral as Atsumu and Osamu were, but in moments like this, where something exciting was lingering just out of reach, he couldn’t help but show his true nature.
“Huh!” Aran repeats. Atsumu feels triumphant. “Is that — is he askin’ ya to be his sugar baby? Is this how people ask for sex now?”
“Patronage ain’t sex, Aran. But it does feel like a letter from the dark ages.” Atsumu tears the letter back from him, reviewing it again. Distantly, he hears Aran critiquing his historical accuracy, but he loses himself in the letter.
This is the kind of request that would come directly from one of those rich guys. The kinds of men who foregrounded themselves purposefully in history, made sure no one ever forgot them. And this is exactly the kind of way they would write, too.
The characters are written in fluid and beautiful kana, each so perfect that Atsumu would never be able to replicate it. It’s the kind of writing you do when you have nothing in the world but time.
Imagine the luxury.
As an artist, Atsumu understands the appeal of beautiful things. But as someone for whom a single tube of oil could cost an arm and a leg — and that’s with a discount — he also knows exactly how much they’re worth.
His fingers glide over the rich paper, feeling the indent from the pen, a peculiar chill emanating from it, especially at the signature.
Meian Shuugo.
He knows that name; of course he would know it. Meian’s nearly singlehandedly responsible for the mortgage on his new home, with its perfect attached studio that gives him gorgeous sunrise and sunset views over distant rolling hills.
This is one of his most dedicated and diligent creators, asking to support him even more than before.
They say you should never look a gift horse in the mouth. But Atsumu doesn’t have the money to deal with a sick horse, or a zebra in a wig.
And he’s just naturally a little suspicious at heart. Who’s to say this is really from Meian? This could be some kind of twisted prank, after all. He needs more information —
“Please get this man to sign an actual contract, at least, for the sake of your taxes!” Aran pleads, the manager inside of him springing to life.
“First I need to know if he’s real, alright?”
— and so he grabs stationery hastily at a local shop, to deliver a response to the courier who will return the next night, at the same time he dropped off Meian’s letter.
Their letters couldn’t be more different. Meian’s is elegant and impressive.
Atsumu’s? It’s one line, a little brusque, but that’s who he is.
Is this a joke?
He’s almost forgotten about it — too engrossed in perfecting a commission of someone’s duck pond at golden hour; not his usual subject matter but pretty all the same — when the courier returns, his peculiar grey-black hair standing on end as he peered into Atsumu’s studio like a remarkably precocious owl.
“Wow,” he whistles, handing over the letter and gesturing at one of Atsumu's paintings hanging in the entryway. “It’s like you’ve brought the morning inside!”
The sky is dark, and the courier — Bokuto, he introduced himself — stares at the art almost longingly, stuck at the threshold.
For a moment — for one long, perennially insane moment — Atsumu thinks about inviting him in.
“Thanks,” he decides, against it after a while. “That means a lot. I’ll uh, ring ya if I need to get him another letter?”
“You have my card!”
This letter is a little less wordy than the other. In fact, it’s downright simple; an assurance that this is the genuine Meian, with a picture included.
Here are my credentials, it reads on the back, and Atsumu nearly drops the picture when he turns it over.
It’s his work, so much of it, lining the dark walls of a tall room, just like those storied halls he so admired. The sheer quantity of it is so much that he drops the letter and picture to the floor and retreats to his painting. But he does recognize a few of them as having been purchased by Meian; the rest, if he really wanted to track down their ownership, would definitely fall under him as well.
If Atsumu were a little less desperate; if he were the kind of self-funded contemporary artist who could afford to sacrifice for the art.
If he didn’t have a mortgage and a desire for comfort and just a little hint of curiosity about this guy…
He’d say no.
“It’s a bad idea,” he says to himself, frowning down at the letter as he raps at his desk. This is his office, where he did what he called business; mostly, it held the nearly decade old laptop he used to pay bills. “I shouldn’t even entertain this.”
But instead of throwing the letter away — instead of doing anything sane — he sends a response back. Gets slightly nicer stationery from the nearest Daiso and writes carefully, on fox-themed paper.
I accept under one condition. I want to hear your voice first. I can understand that you don’t want to show your face to me, but I need to have faith you’re a real guy, somehow.
He’s not expecting the call to come just after moonrise; the pink sunset already lost to the darkness of night, the stars glittering the sky.
Most of the time, the only person calling him is Osamu, so he answers under that assumption. “Listen, scrub, if ya don’t use the good rice next time, I’ll skin ya alive—”
A deep chuckle cuts in; too deep to be Osamu, too deep to be anyone but a stranger. “You sound more fun than I realized,” this someone said, voice like burnished gold. “Is this proof enough that I’m real?”
The voice curls around the last word, implacable accent filling Atsumu’s ears.
“M-meian-sama, I’m —”
“No, no, none of that; I don’t want you to be afraid of me if I’m going to be your patron, after all.”
This, more than anything else, calms Atsumu; he rises from his bench to lounge in one of the soft armchairs that he’s lugged from home to home since his late teens, and stares out at the endless night.
“Ya think I’m gonna agree that easily?” Atsumu asks, feeling the tension fade, something almost flirty rise in his tone. “I’m not a cheap date, yanno?”
“Well, you certainly didn’t provide any other terms in your letters. Just wanting to hear my voice; and I’ll ask one more time. I trust this is sufficient proof?”
Atsumu bites his lip.
In an ideal world, there’d be some kind of face to face contract. He knows from the weird movies that Rin watches that voices can be faked, that scams have gotten incredibly elaborate. But the illusory promise of being desired like this — no, his art and talent being recognized like this — has an allure like the milky starlight.
“One more term, before I agree.”
That damned laugh again. “You drive a hard bargain, Miya —”
“Atsumu. You can call me Atsumu.” His throat feels dry, though he’s not sure why; it feels like the blood in his veins is singing, sparking to life.
“Well, then, Atsumu. Tell me your term.”
He feels emboldened now. “Tell me why ya wanna pick me. What is it that ya like about my art?”
For a moment that seems to stretch so long, there’s silence on the line. True silence, not even the distant sound of breathing; just perfect stillness. It’s so overwhelming that Atsumu almost thinks he’s hung up on him, has to check that the call is still ongoing, when, suddenly —
“You’ve got the warmth of the sun in your art, Atsumu; more real, more visceral, than any picture. That’s why.”
Now, Atsumu’s own heartbeat is the only sound filling his ears.
“I accept,” he says, with finality. “Send your Bokkun over with the contract.”
“My who?”
Atsumu flushes. “Your courier — Bokuto.”
If there were ever some part of Atsumu that was cursed, it was that his dreams always lay further than his arms could reach.
“You’ve heard the story of Icarus, right?” Osamu used to say to him. “Don’t let your hubris get the better of ya.”
“It ain’t hubris, ‘Samu, it’s talent.”
But though his skills have gotten him to all the places he wanted — galleries, this perfect studio, a patron — he’s starting to feel the ache of desire again, for the first time in a long time.
And it’s all thanks to a damned voice on the other side of the line, stoking it like a slow fire.
Though Meian still allowed him to take commissions, he needed to take on far less of them to pay for his expenses. He could be pickier instead of taking whatever came his way — and never have to draw a duck pond again — and didn’t feel like each single brush stroke was the last defense against losing everything. And he never seems to want to interfere in Atsumu’s work, either; never even asking for a specific locale, or trying to change his focus.
“All I want,” he explains over the phone, “is to know I’m supporting an incredible artist. And a first look agreement for buying.”
In lieu of studio visits, they keep up these phone calls.
Well. Eventually.
At first, they were letters; Atsumu eagerly scribbling away at page after page of cheap stationery with a new fountain pen, explaining to Meian what he was working on, and how. But eventually, that much additional writing on top of his painting made his wrist hurt, and he requested to move to calls.
(He still misses Meian’s fancy letters. He keeps them all in a box in his studio, taking them out on occasion so he can run his fingers over the rich creme paper, the dark ink.)
The calls are short, but nice; Atsumu sticks to what he usually would write in his letters, but instead of imagining Meian’s reactions, he has him right there. It’s intoxicating, his velvet voice right in his ear, making him flush while he paints and talks about his newest gallery opening.
“You’ve got an open invite, of course,” Atsumu says. “Guest of honor, and all that.”
“Oh, I’d never want to take the spotlight off of you.”
Atsumu can just imagine the curl of his smirk when he says it, even though he has no clue what Meian looks like. He just knows his voice is seductive without even trying, and — not to be vain — but any fan of his work has to be hot. It’s just how it goes!
Talking to him like this makes him wordier, too; if, in his letters, Atsumu had more time to hide the things that were stressing him out so he wouldn’t put too much pressure on his patron, over the phone, Meian has a way of weedling the things he wants from him. The little desires, the little hungers.
New oils, if Atsumu mentioned running low; an ergonomic pillow, when he spoke of neck pain. All delivered by Bokuto.
Even a bottle of chilled champagne and two glasses, to celebrate that gallery opening.
And, most importantly for Atsumu, another letter to covet, though this one is short.
Split this with someone. Have a celebratory drink for me.
He calls Osamu over to split it, of course; his brother squints at the bottle before nodding his approval, and then steals it away to Atsumu’s kitchen to open it himself because — “Like hell I’m trustin’ ya with a champagne saber.”
“I should get to try it at least once!”
“Not on a bottle this nice.”
But Osamu lets him watch, at least, and they drink it in Atsumu’s kitchen, eating greasy takeout that Osamu picked up on his way over after work.
“So your guy’s been treatin’ ya right, I see,” Osamu says, gesturing at the champagne, the new paints, the many other little gifts he’s given Atsumu.
Atsumu flushes. “He ain’t my guy, ‘Samu, he’s my patron. That’s kinda like my boss, you know?”
“Some boss,” Osamu snorts.
He’s right; Meian really gives him a lot of free reign, and everything he could possibly ask for. It feels like too much to give to any one man, and yet Meian trusts him with all of it. On the other end of the line, he’s pretty sure he’s not imagining how Meian sounds like he smiles when he talks to Atsumu, or the delight when Atsumu’s able to conspire with Bokuto to deliver a gift of a painting to him.
Maybe he’s grown too comfortable with having Meian’s voice in his ear. Maybe he’s grown to like it too much. Maybe it’s that Miya hunger, flaring right back to life.
“Is it weird, though, ‘Samu?” Atsumu asks, once the bottle is down to its dregs and Osamu’s picking at his stir fried veggies. “If I maybe… wanted him to be my guy?”
“That’s too much honesty for tonight,” Osamu says, grimacing instead of offering any real advice. “You need to drink some water and clear your head.”
Okay.
Maybe that’s good advice, but Atsumu’s not going to take it.
Instead, after Osamu steals his bed, he slips off to his studio to make a call.
He feels emboldened; not by the alcohol, which has more than burnt off by now, but by his… wanting.
“Meian,” Atsumu starts, but he pauses immediately — not sure what to say.
“Sounds like you enjoyed my gift.” Meian sounds amused, and it makes Atsumu flush, a little flustered. “Did you share it with someone?”
“My brother. Who’s stealin’ that nice pillow ya gave me, because he’s a real jerk.” Atsumu drops down onto a couch, falling on his back. From this angle, he can just make out the night sky, all those beautiful stars.
He knows Meian must live close, if Bokuto’s able to deliver all those messages that quickly. He knows they see the same stars.
If only they could do that together.
“He sounds like it,” Meian laughs. “If I gave him his own, do you think he’d stop stealin’ yours?”
Atsumu shrugs, a little airily, knowing that Meian can’t see it over the line. It feels natural, talking to him. It feels good.
“Are you paintin’ now?”
“No… Unless ya want me to paint somethin’?”
“I only want you to paint what you want to paint, Atsumu.”
Gods above, he’s so gallant. So good. So willing to give Atsumu everything.
Except —
“Is there something you’re wantin’, Atsumu?” He asks.
“Can ya read minds?” Atsumu jokes, laughing a little nervously.
Meian laughs, a deep chuckle that makes Atsumu rest his hand on his stomach. “No, you’re just obvious when you’re anglin’ for something, you know?”
“I’m not,” Atsumu protests, even though it’s true.
“Come on, you can tell me. Unless it’s somethin’ crazy, like the moon.”
“I’ve got no business with the moon. It’s the sun that’s got my heart.”
He’s expecting a joke, or something, but instead there’s just that preternatural quiet on the line.
“Look,” Atsumu says, eventually, cracking to the silence. “I know that I’m askin’ too much of ya, but — I wanna see ya. I wanna know the man who’s made my life this much easier and — “
Better. He swallows the word down before he can say it, too honest, heart too bared. When he chose art as his career, he knew it wouldn’t be easy, and he knew that he was willing to fight for it, do whatever it took to make a life from his hands and brush. But there’s no doubt that Meian’s made it a lot easier, given him a safety net and extra income, and more ability to explore and experiment instead of just focusing on what was strictly commercial.
And, in the past months, he’s grown fond of him; enamored with his voice, with his stories, with the patient way he listened to Atsumu over the phone as he rambled about his art and process.
Hunger isn’t just a sensation; it’s something that lives. Like a fire fed kindling, it roars. Atsumu will burn his wax wings before he lets them melt.
Unearthly silence on the other end of the line, so familiar to him that it’s become comforting, until —
“I’ve seen photos of you, you know?” Meian says, voice lush and deep. He runs his fingers through his hair on the other end of the line and groans. “So I can imagine how you look right now, all worried and hopeful, all sweet and wanting. Surrounded by sunlight and starlight. It’s a shame that you don’t have that in return, huh?”
Atsumu lets out a short breath of a laugh. “No one’s called me sweet in my whole life,” he says, because that’s what sticks with him.
“Well, I’m sure they’ve just been blind. You’re plenty sweet, Atsumu. And you’re lucky that I’ve got a sweet tooth, because I’ll come and visit ya.”
There are some peculiar stipulations to his visit. Bokuto sends over the list, helps double check that everything is set up properly.
Osamu frowns at the list when he sees it. “Who even writes like this anymore? And what the hell — curtains for all your windows?”
Atsumu shrugs. “He’s payin’ for it, and it’ll be good for insulation in the winter. You know how much I complain about how cold it gets.”
“I don’t care much about ya bein’ a wimp — don’t you dare throw your paint cup at me, ‘Tsumu, or I’ll poison your next meal.”
Shades for the windows; intense ones that block out all the light. A seal on the door to the studio, snuffing out all the cracks. No fresh wounds — “Okay, well that ain’t so hard. Maybe he’s got a thing about blood?” Atsumu says, when he reads it, and Bokuto lets out a sound that sounds like an ailing camel. — or photos, and all mirrors covered.
And most importantly —
“The visit can only take place at night? Are ya sure this ain’t a sugar d — fuck, ‘Tsumu, that’s gonna stain!”
Eventually, Bokuto judges that his preparations are more than sufficient. “He’ll be over later tonight,” he promises, once he’s done looking at Atsumu’s hand to make sure he hasn’t managed to slice them open on a mandolin when he wasn’t looking.
“Tonight? Ain’t that awfully sudden?”
“Oh?” Bokuto peers at him. “But didn’t you want to see him?”
“O-of course! It’s just —”
“It’ll be at least a few hours, if you need some time to prepare.” Bokuto doesn’t give him a chance to answer, before winking obviously at him and heading back towards his car.
He doesn’t even give Atsumu a second look as he yells. “What do ya mean prepare, Bokkun? What are ya talkin’ about?”
Thank the stars he just did laundry, and that a small grocery was still open so he could stock up on essentials.
All that’s left to do until Meian gets here is to work out his nervous energy, but he doesn’t want to get paint all over this outfit already. So instead, he spends the time sketching, drawing whatever comes to mind — mostly a comic strip of Osamu getting eaten by a giant onigiri.
He’s just drawing on the last sesame seed when he hears a car roll up outside, followed by the bell. And when he goes to answer —
“Well?” Meian Shuugo says, his voice somehow deeper in person, silhouetted against the stars. “Aren’t ya gonna let me in?”
Atsumu bites his lip.
He wasn’t expecting his patron to be so hot.
Meian nearly has ten centimeters on him, and Atsumu’s never been considered a small man. His body is broad, too, filling out his dark grey overcoat very nicely, the golden yellow scarf tucked into it the only hint of color. His dark hair is full and rich, and if that weren’t enough, he was handsome, too.
Just Atsumu’s type, in fact; big enough to ruin him, good looking enough to be worth it.
Aren’t patrons supposed to be old men with more money than sense?
“Atsumu?” Meian’s voice cuts through the turmoil of his thoughts — almost hypnotic — and something he can cling to; a buoy in a storm. “We could just stand like this forever, I guess.”
There’s amusement in his tone, as though charm is second nature to him, and something like jealousy flares through Atsumu at the idea of who else might have been charmed by him.
“Of course,” he says. “Come right on in. Is there anything I can offer ya to drink? Snacks?” He’d gone a little crazy at the grocery earlier, all too aware that his fridge usually contained a mix of mugicha, instant coffee, and stolen pudding most of the time.
He only feels a little disappointed when Meian shakes his head, even though the other man looks mirthful about it. “I’ll be alright, I promise.” Atsumu’s about to protest, but Meian pulls off his scarf and coat, and his mouth runs dry.
Underneath, Meian’s wearing the kind of well-worn oxford button-down that Atsumu covets in his dreams; the kind that gets better with wear, that holds all of your secrets in the weave. And, as if that weren’t enough, the collar is open enough for him to catch a glimpse of a gold chain; the pendant dangling on the end hidden from view.
Wordlessly, Atsumu takes his things, hangs them on the coatrack. It gives him a moment to catch his bearings, before he turns, a little rejuvenated.
Meian is standing right there, just a bit closer than he anticipated, and Atsumu startles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his hand rises to Atsumu’s neck; his dark eyes are fixed on him there, and Atsumu feels his heart still until —
“Needed to fix it.”
— He adjusts Atsumu’s collar, straightens it back out, and steps away like nothing happened.
Fuck.
Atsumu grabs his chest; it feels like his blood is burning, heart racing twice as fast, before it simmers back down again.
“L-let me show ya to the studio,” he gets out.
Meian looks at him with the amused expression of someone who knows exactly what they just did to him. “You alright there?”
“Peachy keen,” Atsumu replies, before nimbly stepping in front of him and directing him to the studio doors. In accordance to his requests, even the small windows in his entry and hallway have the curtains drawn tight. In the studio, they’re allowed to be open. Meian had even paid for a fancy system to control them all from the press of a button, so they’ll shutter in an instant if need be. But for now, he wanted to see the stars, and what Atsumu sees when he paints.
“Nice art,” Meian says, placidly, gesturing to the pieces on display in his hall. “Who made ‘em?”
“Friends.” Atsumu points to them as they pass. “Kita did this — he’s a weaver, learned it from his granny. And Shouyou’s a photographer, travels the world makin’ pictures. This one’s from Aran —”
“Your manager?”
“And and friend,” Atsumu demurs. “It’s hard to convince him to make art — he’s mostly a TV writer now — but he’s real good at collage.”
As he talks, a small smile starts to grace Meian’s face.
“What’s got you all happy, huh?” He asks the question so he doesn’t have to think about how warm the expression makes him feel, how fluttery and bright inside.
“It’s lovely to be able to see you in action,” Meian says, “after only being able to hear you over the phone.”
Atsumu blinks, just as they get to the closed door of the studio. “But ya haven’t even seen me paint, yet.”
All Meian does is let out a low chuckle, before he brings a hand gently to the small of Atsumu’s back as if to say go on. “Shall we?”
“Oh, uh —” he’s too distracted by the chill touch of his hand; it’s broad, strong, and even as Meian pulls away, he can still feel the phantom remnants of it. Clearing his throat, he slides open the door. “Here’s where the uh, magic happens.”
It’s much less showmanly than he planned it, but Meian’s catching him so off guard. He wasn’t expecting his patron to be even hotter than he dreamed of him being, and he wasn’t expecting him to be so insistent on stepping into his personal space. The way Meian looks at him, too, is overwhelming; even as he steps into the studio, his eyes are glued to Atsumu, only turning to the rest of the room when he’s fully entered.
It’s consuming, even.
Atsumu feels exposed as Meian surveys the studio. This place; he’s poured his blood, sweat, and tears into it. It’s the culmination of all his hunger, got the bitemarks in the baseboards to prove it. An open nerve, and Meian’s blowing on it, stepping carefully through the path around his desks and chairs and easels, looking at the drafts and drying pieces, at the swatches and tests and piles of sketchbooks that Atsumu can’t bear to throw away.
And, most importantly, he’s looking through the windows — the big, picture windows that make this place so cold in the winter but so worth it, since you can catch the sunrise and sunset from both of them, rolling hills and distant rooftops cutting uneven edges in the horizon line. Atsumu loves this place for its isolation and its peace, but most of all he loves it because the view is a work of art.
Every day, he remembers why he draws what he draws.
But for now, the view is filled with starlight, just as beautiful, while the sweet silver of a crescent moon hides just behind a tree. The whole world gets painted blue at night. Atsumu never felt fearful of darkness, knowing that it was just as welcome as the day; there would be no sunrise without nightfall, after all.
Meian’s fingers gently trail along a cedar table, made from a tree felled nearby. It rests on the tight line of the rings, a half a century or so in the small cross section. Decades of growth, now holding Atsumu’s array of brushes.
“I’m glad you invited me, Atsumu,” Meian says; he’s not facing Atsumu, staring out into the distant night. His soft voice carries through the room. For once, Atsumu is grateful for its echoes.
“Really?” Atsumu steps towards him, carefully, slippered feet gently padding on the wooden floors. “And here I thought I was bein’ too demanding.”
“There’s no such thing,” he replies, words a little sharp. Only when Atsumu reaches him does he turn away from the night, looking over Atsumu once more with those eyes that carry hunger. “Being here… seeing where you work… It’s like — I don’t have words for it.”
“You could try,” Atsumu shrugs. “Maybe it’ll flatter me, a little.”
“And do you give into flattery often, Atsumu?” Meian smirks, tilting Atsumu’s chin up as he raises an eyebrow. Once again, Atsumu feels frozen; trapped in space and time, in the tension between them.
It’s only when Meian’s fingers start to glide down his throat that Atsumu suddenly remembers that he’s an artist and Meian’s his patron. He’s paying him to create, not to be…
Seduced? Flattered?
“I - uh,” he stumbles over the words. “I could be convinced.”
Tell his heart that, then; his hunger will consume him one day. Why not tonight?
The smirk turns gentler, somehow; more rounded. “You’re such a lovely thing,” he says, and Atsumu can’t help but flush.
“That ain’t fair; ya can’t butter me up like that.”
“I think it’s plenty fair. Especially when you’re asking me to talk about somethin’ I can’t quite put the words to.”
“Ya talk real smooth in your letters and on the phone; why are they suddenly gettin’ caught in your throat now?” Atsumu blinks up at him.
He’s not naive; he knows what he’s doing. Knows what they’re doing. Knows that at some point for them both this stopped being strictly professional; maybe it had too much fire to ever stay that way. When the scales tipped, Atsumu doesn’t know. He can’t put a finger on it. It was a gradual shift in the tenor of their calls, the comfort of their communication. And now, seeing Meian in person — feeling him in person — the allure of his body, his movements, the way he admires what Atsumu’s created….
It’s like a spark about to ignite. The hunger of a bonfire.
He knows how to cant his hips and look a little sweet, a little cute; a little teasing just to play with Meian.
“You know damn well,” Meian murmurs. “Sunshine like you’ll be the death of me.”
It's more to himself; an aside rather than a full thought, and before Atsumu can ask about it, Meian continues.
“I don’t — I’m sorry, I just don’t have the words.” He drops his hand; looks defeated. That’s an expression that shouldn’t make a home on Meian’s face.
He doesn’t wear it well.
“It's okay,” Atsumu says. “It’ll come to ya. Look — let me paint ya; it'll give ya some space to think. As long as that doesn't violate your no photographs policy.” He adds a teasing lilt to his voice at the end, but still, Meian looks skeptical.
“Are you sure…”
“Sometimes, just waitin’ it out’ll give ya the answer you need. Time is the best problem solver, right?”
“Right.” That amused expression is back; defeatism defeated. “Alright. Paint me like one of your —”
“Titanic references are banned from the studio; house rules!”
He has an ulterior motive for this, really. Meian is just so damn handsome, and he has no way of knowing if his memory would save him if he tried to remember the angles of his face after he left.
Each of his paintings capture both a moment and a thousand moments; all of the sunrises and sunsets Atsumu's stored in his memory, all the ones he's seen before, all the ones he'll see in the years to come. They're not perfect recreations of the sun; to do that would he like trying to bottle flame.
No, the best he can do is imbue his art with the feeling.
But with Meian, before him, like a statue, he wishes he could cast the man in bronze, carve him from marble, keep him perfect for eternity. He wants to remember his face forever, without his imagination playing tricks on him and without each morning afterwards clouding the image.
As promised, he gives Meian space to work out an answer while he paints — or draws, rather. Better to sketch him out, first, and paint something later. It’s been a while since he’s worked in graphite, and an even longer while since he’s drawn a portrait, but it’s worth it to capture something so precious.
The strong line of his nose, the sharp cut of his jaw, even the shockingly delicate chain that dangles, its pendant still hidden below his shirt. At some point, Meian undid his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms that cross under his chest as he sits, lost in thought.
In a fit of whimsy, Atsumu finds some of his pastels; sets to paint a bit of color onto his face, to remember the way the depths of his dark hair caught the twinkling light of the stars, the way his skin seemed to glitter in the blue night.
“You’re real patient, you know?” Atsumu says, interrupting his focus as he blends in a little pink to reflect the dawn just starting to kiss the horizon. “You’ve spent so much time sittin’ for me that it’s nearly d-”
“Fuck,” Meian hisses — hisses — as he flies out of his chair, scrambling for the button on the wall that immediately shutters the windows.
No.
There was no scramble.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
There was just a brief curse and then a flash of dark, as Meian crossed the studio nearly as fast as light itself. Too quickly and nimbly for a human.
Too impossible to be anything else.
Atsumu stands, turning toward the wall where Meian still stands. He clutches his chest, as if in shock, but not panting. He’s not out of breath, because he couldn’t be breathing.
“Meian —”
“Call me Shuugo. Please. Now that you know my biggest secret.”
“Well Shuugo,” Atsumu says, walking over, feeling much calmer than he should, feeling almost insane from the very notion. “I wouldn’t say I know. I’d say that I have a bit of an educated guess.”
This time, when Meian looks at him, his eyes are dark — the pupils spread wide, like the night vanishing beyond the window blinds have been sucked into him here.
He almost doesn’t want to say it out loud. Almost doesn’t want to give voice to the crazy thought he’s been circling around, something that seemed so impossible.
Instead, when he reaches Meian, he grabs his hand, wrestling it gently loose from his chest.
“No wonder you like my paintings so much, huh?” Atsumu says, because he doesn’t want to say it out loud. “It must remind ya of what you’ve been missin’.”
Meian blinks.
Once, twice, jaw dropped open as he searches Atsumu’s face, clarity blooming before — “Yes. That’s what I’ve been searching for. That’s why I’ve been seeking your work out. That’s why I felt so compelled to your art, and drawn to it, and — dare I say, possessive?”
“Possessive how?”
“Well. Your art is very well known and admired in our circles. And I wanted to snatch you up before someone else did. I know my kind, and we’re like vultures when we hunger.”
That’s a question for another day — how many of Atsumu's clients have been creatures of the night. Instead, he lets the pride of being wanted wash over him.
“I wanna hear it from ya,” Atsumu says, rubbing this thumb softly against Meian’s hand, just coaxing him. “Not just an agreement, I wanna hear in your voice why you like my work.” He can tell that Meian’s still hesitant, still a little nervous — to think, however old he is, to be nervous? To that end, Atsumu closes his eyes and leans against Meian, letting the man support his full weight. “Just pretend it’s one of our phone calls if it helps calm your nerves’’
“I’m not…” Meian embraces him, wraps his strong arms around Atsumu, holds him tight. Cups his head, too, and Atsumu is startled by the lack of a beating heart. “But let me try. Your paintings…. They help me remember my humanity; the last moments of my aliveness. The little things that I took for granted back then. You bring them all flooding back, like breath to my lungs.”
Atsumu feels like the breath’s been sucked out of him. “Flattery’ll get ya everywhere,” he murmurs.
“It’s not flattery. It’s the truth.”
Atsumu might have even kissed him then, if he didn’t feel Meian’s body shudder with an ache as he adjusted himself upright again. And, as he looked closely at Meian’s face, he could see clearly the barely concealed pain threatening to crack his facade.
“You’re hurt… was it the sun? Even just that little kiss of dawn?”
“A kiss for you is death for us,’ Meian murmurs. “But not exactly…”
He fishes out his pendant; form the end of the chain hands a medallion, with an icon of the sun stamped into it. “It gives a warning; it’s sensitive to any sunlight, so when we feel its sting, we have the chance to flee instead of —”
Meian trails off.
Atsumu can read between the lines.
“You were distracted by me? I was only drawing…” Atsumu trails off as he sees the angry mark on Meian’s skin, like a brand, the skin burned and angry. “Shit, Shuugo —”
“I do like it when you say my name.”
“That’s what ya call a sting? How do ya fix that?”
“Don’t worry,” Meian chuckles. “Nothing that a little blood drinking can’t fix.”
If he thought that would get Atsumu off of his case, then he was wrong.
Because Atsumu fixes himself with a determined expression, pulling back from Meian to unbutton his shirt and reveal more of his bare neck and shoulder.
Meian hisses, punching his thigh. “Fuck. Atsumu — that’s. You can’t just show that to me.” There’s a little lisp in his voice, like his mouth suddenly has too much fang in it, and the darkness in his eyes looks even more dangerous. He’s feasting with his eyes, glued to where Atsumu’s pulse thrums with life.
“Fix it,” Atsumu says, simply, tilting his neck. “Do it — take what ya need.”
“What?”
“I owe you so much. Just do it.”
“Atsumu.” Meian bites his lip, closes his eyes briefly; they open so fast, like he doesn’t want to miss any moment of Atsumu’s skin, his rabbit heart pounding in his veins. “You can’t possibly know what you’re asking for.”
“I know I can’t,” Atsumu says. “But there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” He knows Osamu would call him insane, knows that Aran would’ve fainted by now. He doesn’t know what any of this means; doesn’t know how to separate the stories from reality.
All he knows is what he wants; and all he knows how to do is to reach for it.
They don’t tell you how beautiful the sun looked when Icarus felt her rays on his skin.
Atsumu will always reach for beauty.
“I want ya to do it anyway. I want ya to feel better. And I just — I trust that you won’t hurt me, you know?”
Meian looks conflicted.
“Please,” Atsumu begs. “I guess it ain’t life threatening, but I know it must hurt. And I guess —”
“You guess?”
“Well… you wanted to be my patron because you wanted my art, right? Is it too much to want my blood to be the only blood ya drink?”
Those dark eyes sharpen, focus on Atsumu.
“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he groans, but he doesn’t push him away. “Fuck. The things you’re doing to me…”
“It’s just one little feed, and then we can take it from there. We don’t have to sign up for anything right now. And when we’re done, you can explain exactly what it is I’m asking for.”
Apparently it’s easier back to chest. Meian turns Atsumu around, dropping them both to the ground and resting him between his knees.
All his life he’s been big; it’s so strange, here, to be small.
It might be his imagination, because he swears he feels something on his skin — like breath, but it might just be static, or something electric — as Meian’s lips hover over his neck.
“Are you sure?” Meian says. He’s got one arm wrapped around Atsumu’s chest, bracing them together, and the other hand is tilting Atsumu’s head to the side for the best angle.
“Of course, Shuugo,” Atsumu replies. He can feel Meian’s shiver of pleasure from his name — just his name! — through his body. “I want ya to do it. Drink from me. Take what you want.”
His grip tightens. “Don’t let me take what I want,” he murmurs, a warning. “I’ll drink you dry. I want your everything, Atsumu.”
Atsumu flushes. “Take what ya need, then.”
He can feel that damned smile on his skin. “Good boy,” he coos, before —
“Ah!”
Fangs pierce his skin with sting that makes him shake and straight, but Meian holds him fast and tight. He’d been warned about the pain, and so he bites his lip and clenches his fist and braces himself until they retract and Meian’s tongue starts to lap at the spot. His spit is cold, the saliva soothing, and it’s only when he seals his lips to the wound in a facsimile of a kiss, that Atsumu really starts to feel it.
The dizzying sensation of a feeding. It makes him hazy, makes him feel like he’s flying. This is euphoria, probably, as Meian drinks and drinks and drinks, bending over his body to get more leverage, overwhelming him, overpowering him, big and needy and wanting as much of Atsumu as he can take.
It spreads to every nerve, feels like pleasure on steroids; there are words coming from his throat that he’ll never remember saying. He’s begging, pleading, wanting for something that Meian’s giving him, reaching for his hands, for his head, coaxing him to drink more, to take more.
Maybe he’s been wrong about desire this whole time. Maybe it’s not fire; maybe it’s blood. Maybe it’s what keeps our bodies running, keeps us going.
Desire is what makes us — and keeps us — human.
“Please, Meian — Take, need more!”
None of what he’s saying makes sense, but Meian keeps drinking from him until he’s light-headed. The arm around his chest turns into a hand brushing against his torso, teasing his chest as it travels low on his belly. The hand tilting his head becomes fingers in his mouth, making him moan until Meian finally pulls off of him, letting the wound close.
But still, the pleasure remains.
“I knew you were sweet,” Meian whispers, voice rough from the taking, as his fingers work at the buttons of Atsumu’s pants. “Knew you were special. Your blood tasted like sunshine; warmed me more than anything else ever has. It took everything I had not to drain you dry — it took knowing I’ll have you for the rest of my life to keep me from doing it.”
Fuck.
Atsumu’s body rocks, his cock nudging desperately, hungrily, against Meian’s hand as he sucks at his fingers. Somehow, he’s able to slip into his pants, wrap a hand around it as Atsumu moans, chasing his pleasure.
He’d been warned about this too; the overwhelming pleasure of a feed, how intoxicating it is. Meian had urged him to just give into the pleasure, give into the wanting, but you didn’t have to tell Atsumu twice.
It’s so easy to ride the wave of it as Meian controls his body, pulling those fingers out of his mouth so he can kiss Atsumu, make him taste the lingering iron on his tongue, the sting of his still-present fangs. The sweetest thing in the world to let Meian coax his body to completion.
And it’s just as easy to decide he wants more. To turn around, to clamber onto Meian’s thighs and cup his jaw and kiss him; to devour him the way Meian did to him. To drink his fill of kissing, of touching, of their bodies against each other as the long day slowly turned to night, this single missed day of sunrises and sunsets worth it to have Meian all to himself.
Now
Shuugo doesn’t need Atsumu’s words to remember what the sun feels like.
He just needs to taste him to know.