#rinharuweek2015

He’s been up for three hours already when his phone rings, knocking into his laptop as it vibrates. Rin’s frantic typing breaks off mid-sentence, and he scowls as he reaches for the phone and taps to answer the call.

“Wake up,” Sousuke says immediately, “I’ve found you an illustrator.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Rin bites back immediately, responding to the first part of the sentence without really registering the second. “You’re the one who doesn’t get out of bed before noon, you lazy assho—wait, what?”

“I said,” Sousuke responds in a flat voice, but Rin can sense his smugness, “that I’ve found you an illustrator.”

For a moment Rin just glances back at his laptop, at the sentence cut off in the middle that represents a small part of what he’s been trying to do for years, now. He imagines the characters lifting off of the page, strokes rearranging into visuals that tell his story better than his words ever could. For a moment, he’s hopeful.

Then he sighs, rolling his eyes as he looks towards the ceiling. “That’s what you said last time, Sou, and that guy had noinspiration. And the time before that the girl couldn’t make a deadline to save her life. And don’t get me started on the ones before that, ‘house style’ isn’t an excuse to give everyone the same goddamned face—”

“Says the person who sabotages every meeting because he’s too picky.”

“I’m not picky!” Rin insists. He’s not whining, exactly, but it’s a close thing. “I just want it to be perfect.”

“That’s what ‘picky’ means.” Sousuke sighs into his phone, and Rin can imagine him squinting, shaking his head. “Look, just meet the guy, will you? Gou thinks he’ll be a good fit.”

Rin rolls his eyes again, but not without fondness. His little sister is an ace at matching talents, which is probably why Iwatobi Publishing finds her so valuable. But she’s never suggested an illustrator for Rin, before.

“You don’t sound very happy about this,” Rin comments, idly. “Aren’t you the one who gets a huge bonus if this project finally gets off the ground?”

Sousuke’s silent for a moment, and Rin imagines him wrapping his knuckles against his desk, frustrated. “He’s not exactly my favorite person,” he says, finally.

Nothing could have piqued Rin’s interest more.

“Oh? Just who is this guy?”

“Nanase Haruka. You’ve got a meeting with him at one at the Bear Pond. Don’t be late.”

--

Because Rin had blocked off the entire day for writing, he gets to the coffee shop at a quarter after one. He orders himself an espresso and glances around the small, cramped shop. He knows there is no pattern to what artists look like, anymore than there is one to writers. He spots a couple in the corner on a date, three others he immediately pegs as university students. And there, tucked away in the back corner—

He’s dark-haired, his eyes cast down as he makes broad strokes with a thick pencil across his sketchpad. He’s wearing a loose, worn blue cardigan, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. There’s a soft furrow in his brow as he works, which Rin takes as a good sign—Rin has always appreciated focus, concentration.

Rin saunters over, coffee still in hand. “Nanase?”

Nanase doesn’t glance up, just continues to his slow, languid sketching for a moment. When he’s finished to his satisfaction, he sets the pencil and sketchpad aside on the seat next to him and flicks his gaze upwards, at Rin.

“Holy shit,” Rin says, before he can think better of it, “your eyes are like the ocean.”

Nanase Haruka blinks once, his expression utterly blank. But it’s true—his eyes are a luminous, deep blue, a stronger color than Rin’s ever seen. (And that’s counting his own eyes, which aren’t exactly a common shade.)

“Um,” Rin continues, biting down on the inside of his cheek, “that’s not what I meant to say.”

“Is that a writer’s thing?” Nanase says, sounding bored. “Speaking in metaphors?”

“What? No,” Rin says. “That would be really pretentious, wouldn’t it? And that was a simile, anyway.”

“Right,” Nanase says. There’s a moment of stale silence, and then: “Are you going to sit down?”

Rapidly feeling like he’s lost all semblance of power in this situation, Rin shuffles into the chair opposite Nanase. He gulps down the rest of his coffee and sets the cup aside before steepling his fingers in front of him.

“So, I hear you might be the artist I’m looking for,” he says, trying to lace his voice with confidence and just a bit of uncaring.

The way Nanase blinks at Rin is like shrugging without having moved. Rin is absolutely certain that he is being judged, and found wanting.

“I only work freelance,” Nanase says blandly.

“…whatever works for you,” Rin mutters, trying to make sense of the man in front of him. “Did you bring a portfolio, or something? Maybe we can start there.”

Nanase blinks again, but then reaches into his bag and passes a tablet over to Rin. Rin taps it on, and sees a digital portfolio—designed in stark white and blue, with a swirling, wave-like pattern along its borders. He takes a few minutes flipping through Nanase’s work, trying to get a sense of it. There are character designs—costumes, expressions, body-types all vastly different from the one before, and sweeping landscape and scenery shots. Four- and six-panel comics show Nanase’s sense of narrative timing, and the storytelling behind his work. After only a few minutes, Rin knows the guy is talented. There’s a realism to his art that doesn’t feel stiff, a unique style that stays true while adapting to the needs of each work.

The last few pieces are sketches, scratchy pencil drawings on paper that have been scanned. There’s a broad-shouldered man with a surprisingly gentle smile, and another with angelic features but keen eyes. And then, the sheen of glasses and an utterly self-conscious smile.

“Is this Ryugazaki?” Rin asks, astounded.

Nanase nods. “You know Rei?”

“He’s my copy-editor,” Rin mutters, thinking guiltily back to the stack of marked drafts he has yet to send back to the younger man. “I’ve never seen him smile like this.” Or at all—Rin had thought Ryugazaki was incapable of being anything other than serious. (“Dangling modifiers aren’t beautiful, Rin-san!”)

Nanase doesn’t comment, and Rin continues tapping through the portfolio. There’s even a head-sketch of Gou, tapping her lower lip with her pen as she holds her cellphone to her ear.

Rin is impressed, by the time he gets to the end. But he’s also biting down on his lower-lip, unable to pinpoint the uncertain feeling he has.

“The book I’m writing—or, rewriting, we’re on the third draft, now—did your agent tell you about it?”

“It’s a romance.” Nanase still isn’t making direct eye contact, staring down at the table instead.

“It’s not only a romance,” Rin mumbles. “But you read the outline, then?”

“The entire draft,” Nanase corrects. And then, as if it’s nothing, he says, “I didn’t like it.”

It takes Rin a moment to process the words, for them to quite sink in. And because he’s hurt, he responds with anger. “Well, then what the hell are we having this meeting for, then?”

Nanase continues as if Rin hasn’t spoken. “The mermaid doesn’t have any real personality. She’s just there to make the plot seem more magical, and to push Yui’s story forward.”

“She’s a mermaid,” Rin says through gritted teeth. “She is magical. And—what the hell? You’re not my editor, I’m not asking you for story advice!”

“A story has to be alive, before I can draw for it,” Nanase says. For a moment, Rin thinks that he should write Nanase into the story—an expressionless sage who dispenses wisdom hidden in riddles.

“Hey, wait a minute—no one’s said you’re drawing for it, yet! Who says I even want you to?”

Nanase blinks twice, this time. “You don’t?”

Rin sighs exaggeratedly, runs a hand through his hair. “You’re good, which you’re obviously aware of. But I don’t know if you’re right for this story. It has to be special. Have a certain… feeling to it.”

Nanase doesn’t seem to be insulted by this. Instead, he just nods. “You’ll think about it.”

“Yeah,” Rin says. “I’ll think about it.”

Nanase actually shrugs this time, gathering his things and rising to his feet. “Give the mermaid a reason to be in the story—it’ll be better.”

Before Rin can bite out a response, Nanase pulls a business card out of his bag and hands it to him. There’s a printed sketch of a fish on one side, and on the opposite is Nanase’s email, website, and phone number.

“Call me directly, if you want to,” Nanase says. “I don’t want to talk to your agent again.”

--

Rin abandons his thoughts of writing for the day and wanders out to the ocean, to think. He sheds his socks and shoes and sits near the shore, letting the waves lap up over his ankles as he stares out at the ocean. He’s reminded, uncomfortably at first, of the hue and intensity of Nanase’s eyes.

It’s not that he didn’t like the other man’s work—he’s an exceptional artist, that much is certain. But there was something too clinical about his sketches, realistic in a way that Rin can’t imagine his characters and world in.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when his phone rings, screen displaying a picture of his sister throwing up two peace signs and winking at him.

“Yo, Gou,” he says, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“What was wrong this time?” she says, already sounding exasperated. “Haruka-senpai is an amazing artist! Why don’t you want to work with him?”

“I never said I didn’t!” Rin is immediately defensive, in a way that reminds him of when he and Gou were kids and she’d always catch him in one of his worse fits of grumpiness. “It’s just that—”

“If you’re going to give me some fake excuse, save it for Sousuke-kun.” Gou sighs, and Rin imagines her twirling a strand of hair around one finger. “You can’t reject seven artists in a row, just like that! It’s like you don’t want this to work, Onii-chan.”

“Of course I want it to work! I’ve been trying to get this book published for years! And I’m not giving you a fake excuse. That guy was—he’s amazing, okay? His figures seem alive, and everything flows perfectly, and he’s got great aesthetics. He’s probably some kind of genius. Is that what you want me to say?”

“I just want you to be honest with yourself,” Gou says quietly, defiantly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rin’s voice rises, and he can see others, further down the beach, turning to glance his way. He glares ferociously at them, nearly hissing.

“Are you being picky because the artists aren’t good enough, or because you think you aren’t?”

“I—what?” Rin’s dumbfounded, for a moment. He feels like Gou has materialized beside him, only to punch him in the gut.

“I won’t push,” Gou continues, softly. “But have you seen Haruka-senpai’s gallery? It might change your mind.”

Rin swallows, shakes his head before he realizes they’re on the phone and she won’t see him. “I am good enough,” he says, trying to convince himself.

“I know you are. I wouldn’t back a story I didn’t believe in, even if my brother did write it! Just—give Haruka-senpai one more chance, alright?”

“Alright,” Rin agrees, after a moment. “Just for you.”

--

The address printed on Nanase’s business card turns out to be a modestly-sized studio in a nicer part of Tokyo. Rin wanders in early the next morning, smirking at the painting of a dolphin jumping up out of the ocean that hangs over the door.

Nanase’s studio is like him—simple, direct, beautiful. The walls are painted a soft gray, the paintings framed in white. There hadn’t been any paintings in his portfolio, only digital art and charcoals and pencil sketches. Immediately, Rin feels as though he’s walked into another world. Or maybe dived is the right word, because all of Nanase Haruka’s paintings are watercolors.

The soft colors somehow manage to stay unambiguous—sunsets bleeding from gold to pink to mauve and then melting into the subtle blues and greens of oceans, bright eyes looking out from behind curtains or around corners. There’s something ethereal about Nanase’s paintings, in a way his drawings weren’t. These works are free-flowing, natural, breathtaking.

Rin wants, with a sudden urge that overtakes him, to see his stories in these paintings.

He makes three rounds through the gallery, looking at each painting in turn and imagining that they all fit together. He stops at an expansive painting of a sakura tree each time, wondering how each flower can seem distinct in this medium. The children in the paintings grew up together, he decides. They spent a lot of time at the ocean—it brought them together, linked them. But something would have come between them, eventually. The world would not have been so kind as to let them stay together in such peace forever…

“Matsuoka?”

Rin turns to see Nanase staring at him, hair damp and dripping onto his shoulders.

“The door was open,” Rin says, “so I had a look around.”

Nanase doesn’t seem particularly bothered. “They’re there for people to look at.”

“They’re beautiful,” Rin offers, suddenly tense. Now that he wants Nanase to work with him, he’s suddenly got a lot more to lose.

Nanase doesn’t respond right away, and Rin thinks idly that he isn’t very good at accepting compliments. It humanizes him, in a way, and Rin grins.

“I’ve thought about it,” he says.

Nanase waits.

“I want you to illustrate my book,” Rin says, gathering his courage. “But not like the stuff you showed me yesterday. I want this.” He gestures at the gallery, at the entire universes held in Nanase’s paintings.

For a long moment, Nanase doesn’t respond. Then, he turns his head to one side and asks, “Why is the mermaid in the book?”

Rin grins, laughs self-deprecatingly. “Because the protagonist needs her to be, I guess. She’s inspiring, and Yui loves her.” He doesn’t really question why his characters feel the way they do, just knows that writing their dreams coming true is like achieving his own.

“Give her a reason,” Nanase says, “and I’ll think about it.”

Rin doesn’t hear the conditional in Nanase’s words, just laughs again and lifts one hand into the air. “Your pictures and my words, Nanase—we could tell the world a story it’s never heard before. Show it a sight it’s never seen.”

“Only if you can write better than you did in that last draft,” Nanase says, dryly.

Rin doesn’t know whether he feels indignant or hopeful. The combination isn’t entirely unpleasant, he decides.

--