then perish.

   focus shifts, paint having since rubbed onto his clothes (  and who could guess how? ), and brush ( not so ) gracefully paints over his previous piece.  of course, he hears what yusuke tells him     —- what could be otherwise deemed advice however going through one ear and out the other as he continues to paint not with his brush, but with his fingers. 

‘ huh? what were you saying? ’    he turns his focus back unto artist,    ‘ hey, does it look like a dragon now? ’   he asks, pointing to the painting’s face.    ‘  ——those are supposed to be teeth. ’    regardless, the frustration that remains laced in his words is identifiable;  determination overcoming as he wishes to create at least one piece he’d be proud to bring home to his mother.

                             judgement clouds his vision, a silent critic uncomposed. he’d not speak until addressed, & of course, ryuji would address him without hesitation. gaze shifts over his piece & he dissects the every stroke from brush to fingertips. -- a dragon ?  he’d thought it more of some sort of oceanic centipede. its appearance is entirely unpleasant.

there’s some sort of familiar rage that pulls from mere discomfort & he’s not so angry as he is slightly repulsed. it’s unintentional, certainly, so he simmers the feeling down to a squint accompanied only by a slight slant of the lip.

hands draw near to the paint brush & he has to physically stop himself from correcting ryuji’s canvas. he holds his hand in the air for a moment, before hesitantly dropping it back to his side.

                       ❝   i couldn’t tell. the teeth are -- ... questionable. 

   the aroma of freshly cooked food fills the atmosphere, his mouth practically watering  —- picturing the meal that he had been dreaming of all day hitting his taste buds … and it was finally coming into view, server bringing it closer, and closer, and closer … until it finally was set down before him.  

‘ oh mannn … ’ the words were just under his breath, chopsticks careful in his grip. he’s just about to bring it to his mouth, until … he feels a subtle breath down his neck, his head turning, and he goes to shout:  ‘ yusuke ! ’ he’s quick, pulling his food closer to him.  ‘ i told you … you got your own food !      you do this every time  — —  if you like what i’m gettin’ then order your own man ! ’      / @perishfate

                          chopsticks edge along the traces of ryuji’s plate, some curiosity consuming him as he looks upon an order of which he’s never tried  .  .  .  he wasn’t so certain that ryuji hadn’t any awareness of his initial act, rather, he may have believed he didn’t necessarily care  .  .  .  that he was taking his food, of course. & so, he proceeded  --  for several minutes. trying different sets of food from each of their plates as he allowed the flavor to embellish his tastes -- an introduction to a food that wasn’t the cheapest on the menu. the act was quite rewarding. 

  .  .  .  that is, it was, until ryuji had so loudly expressed his frustrations with yusuke, immediately pulling a frown of confused frustration from a hurt expression. he’d be offended either way, certainly, but perhaps less embarrassed if ryuji had kept his voice focused between the two of them. 

                                                    ❝   i thought it best to try beforehand.

                ❛  hey  ,  let’s do lunch .  i’ve got some extra money from boss ,  ❜      not entirely true  —  extra money  ,  yes .  from sojiro  ,  no .  but he figures yusuke might feel more inclined if he thinks of it as as a  special treat  and not an act of concern for the rumbling noises his stomach is making .      ❛  so i can definitely pay for the both of us .  you wanna do sushi ?  ramen ? or uh  …  oh  !  there’s some new place that opened up near the museum right ?  supposed to have a lot of food from other countries .  might be a good source of inspiration for you  ,  yeah ?  ❜

                                                            ❝   ah  .  .  .   ❞

                            a moment of silence, of contemplation, spreads like the wings of a dove through the humid air. he debates quietly & shifts misplaced hair from his sight before fingers begin to twist the button of his shirt’s left cuff  .  .  .   ❝  i see. so the shop is doing well.  ❞   slight smile, mild relief exhaled. 

        ❝ i … see. ❞ creativity eludes him. once again he’s utterly bemused / bewildered. canvases are naught but alabaster squares, awaiting paint and an artist ( that’s all he sees. ) he’s devoid of imagination, unfortunately. ❝ how would you paint that? i mean, like, what colors do you use? ❞