#takeo cod

        After an exhausting and grueling day, filled with the relentless chaos of fighting and killing, we finally managed to carve out a small pocket of time to rest and breathe. The air still felt thick with tension, and the adrenaline had yet to fully leave our bodies. Every muscle screamed for release, but the surroundings were so eerily quiet that it felt almost impossible to relax. The remnants of the battle lingered in our minds, haunting our every thought. It was almost too uncomfortable, too unnatural, to unwind in such an atmosphere. Despite the desperate need for rest, the weight of everything we'd just been through made it feel like we were too on edge to truly settle into peace.

        I fidgeted with the zipper of my jacket, the fabric cool under my fingers, as we settled down by the fire. The warmth of the flames flickered in front of us, but the stillness in the air made it hard to fully relax. As I absentmindedly adjusted my jacket, my hand brushed against something in my pocket that I hadn't noticed before. I pulled it out, my fingers brushing over the five small tubes of paint, their lids glinting in the firelight. For a moment, I was confused, but then it hit me — I remembered exactly where I had found them.

        They were tucked away in the corner of an old, abandoned house we’d passed through earlier. The place had been decaying, with dust thick in the air and the creaking of old wood beneath my feet. But amidst the forgotten rubble, I’d spotted the paint tubes, left behind by someone who’d clearly once had a passion for color. I had even managed to find a paintbrush, its bristles were a little frayed but still functional. The thought of it made me smile to myself.

        A wave of excitement surged through me as I realized what this meant. I hadn’t expected to come across something like this, and the possibility of putting my hands to use creatively, even for just a little while, filled me with an unexpected sense of purpose. I eagerly reached into my bag, pulling out my journal. It was a little worn from travel, its pages well-used, but it still held the stories and moments I’d captured in sketches and notes. Flipping through the pages, I found a few incomplete drawings, half-finished thoughts from times when I’d managed to steal a quiet moment.

        With a grin, I opened to a blank page and set the journal in my lap, ready to lose myself in this rare moment of creativity, even in the midst of all the chaos. The fire crackled beside me, and the world outside faded into the background. 

        I started with something simple, a few flowers. Just basic shapes with soft, curved petals. It was easy, almost instinctive, and it felt comforting to let my hand move freely across the page. The smooth strokes of the pencil came naturally, each line flowing with little effort. I hadn’t even thought about adding color yet; the sketch itself was enough for the moment. But even as I focused on the drawing, something in the air kept pulling my attention. There was this nagging feeling, a subtle weight in the back of my mind as if someone was watching me.

        I glanced up briefly, trying to gauge the room, but no one seemed to be paying attention to me. Edward was deep in conversation with Nikolai, his voice low and serious, though I couldn’t make out their words over the crackling fire. Their exchange seemed intense as if they were discussing something important, but it didn’t distract me long. Dempsey, as usual, was doing his own thing, sitting with his back against a large rock, methodically taking apart his gun and cleaning it piece by piece. The rhythmic sound of the metal parts clicking together was oddly soothing, almost like a steady pulse in the background.

        And then there was Takeo, sitting a little farther away from the group, his gaze distant and unfocused. His posture was stiff like he was lost in his thoughts, as if his mind had wandered far away from the warmth of the fire. His usual calm was there, but there was something deeper in his expression, something I couldn’t quite place. His silence was heavy, though he rarely spoke much to begin with.

        Despite all this, the feeling that I was being watched lingered, tugging at my focus. It was strange, almost unsettling. I didn’t want to look up again and risk making it obvious that I noticed, so I kept my eyes down on the paper. Still, my mind kept drifting. I tried to shake off the feeling, focusing on the softness of the pencil in my hand, the way it moved across the page, but the suspicion didn’t quite fade. Maybe it was just the way the shadows from the fire flickered across the faces of my companions, or the quiet stillness of the night around us. But something told me I wasn’t alone in my thoughts, even if no one spoke a word.

        When I was finally satisfied with the sketch, I paused for a moment to take it all in. My eyes scanned the lines of the flowers, the delicate curves of the petals, making sure everything was as I envisioned it. There was something deeply satisfying about the way the sketch had turned out, even if it was simple. I wasn’t trying to make anything too intricate; I just wanted to capture a small, quiet moment of beauty. I made a few final adjustments, a soft curve here, a sharper angle there, then looked at it once more, letting a small smile tug at the corners of my lips. It was, in its own way, perfect.

        With a deep breath, I reached into my pocket again, pulling out the small tubes of paint. I didn’t have much to work with—only five colors. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough for what I had in mind. I set them down carefully on the ground beside me, looking at the colors in the soft glow of the firelight: white, maroon, dark green, yellow, and navy blue. It wasn’t a wide palette, but there was still plenty of potential here. I could work with this.

        I picked up the maroon first, squeezing a small amount of it onto the makeshift palette I had set up, carefully using the edge of a broken stick as a mixing surface. I thought about how I would use the maroon and white together to create a gentle gradient, blending them to shade the flowers, turning them into a soft pink color. I imagined it—how they’d pop against the dark blue background, the petals delicate and inviting, with just the right amount of depth.

        The green and yellow were next. I figured the green would work for the stems and leaves, a subtle contrast to the vibrant blooms I was planning. The yellow would add a hint of brightness, maybe for the centers of the flowers, a little burst of warmth.

        Then there was the navy blue. That would be for the background—rich and deep, the perfect backdrop to make the flowers stand out, almost like they were glowing in the dim light. I could already picture how it would all come together in my mind, a beautiful, simple piece of art that felt like a moment of peace I could carry with me.

        But as I prepared to dip the brush into the maroon, the thought crossed my mind: What if I didn’t get to finish it? It was a fleeting thought, but the reality of our situation was always present. Who knew how much time I’d have before we had to pack up and move again, or worse when we’d have to fight our way out of another situation? The chaos of our world was always lurking just around the corner, ready to disrupt anything that felt even remotely normal.

        Still, I didn’t let that stop me. I took the brush in hand, dipped it carefully into the maroon, and began to paint the first flower, one slow stroke at a time. If I didn’t get to finish it, at least I would have this—this small, fleeting piece of beauty—captured in the moment. And for now, that was enough.

         My attention was entirely on the small canvas in front of me—the way the maroon paint swirled into the soft pink of the petals, the quiet rhythm of the brush against the paper. The crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of the others didn’t break my concentration. I had created this little world of color and shape, one that felt far removed from the tension and chaos of everything else.

        It wasn’t until I felt the weight of someone’s gaze that I realized something had shifted. A soft presence beside me. Before I could even turn to see who it was, I jumped slightly in surprise.

        There, standing next to me, was Takeo. I hadn’t heard him approach. He was so quiet, as usual, that his movement seemed almost imperceptible. But there he was, right next to me, his gaze fixed intently on the flowers I was painting. His eyes traced every stroke, every detail as if studying the way the colors blended together. His usual stoic expression was softened just enough for me to catch a glimpse of quiet curiosity.

        I felt a slight flush creep up my neck, an unfamiliar sense of being watched in a way that felt different from before. Takeo had always been a man of few words, but his presence was always felt, whether he spoke or not. Now, with him standing just over my shoulder, the silence between us seemed even heavier.

        For a moment, I froze, unsure of what to do. I didn’t mind him looking—though I wasn’t exactly used to it—but there was something about how still and unspoken he was that made me feel self-conscious.

        I cleared my throat, trying to regain some composure, but my hand remained steady, even if my mind was suddenly a little scattered. "You like it?" I asked, glancing up at him as I dabbed more paint onto the page.

        He didn’t immediately respond, his eyes were still focused on the flowers, studying them with a quiet intensity. I could see the faintest hint of approval in the way his eyes softened, though he didn’t say a word. Takeo was never one to offer praise or even much of an opinion. His silence was often his way of communicating more than words could express.

        Still, the fact that he had come so close to observing my work felt like a compliment in its own way. I wasn’t sure if he fully understood the significance of the act—painting, for me, was a rare escape, a brief respite from the constant noise of everything around us. But maybe, just maybe, in that moment, he saw that too.

        I continued to paint, but the presence of him beside me made everything feel a little different, a little more significant. I wasn’t alone in this small moment of peace anymore. It wasn’t much, but for a brief instant, it felt like something shared.

        Takeo didn’t say a word. He simply sat down beside me, settling into the dirt with a quiet ease that made his presence all the more noticeable. He leaned slightly forward, his attention entirely on my work, and there was something almost serene about the way he watched. It was as if he wasn’t just observing the act of painting, but something deeper—something that I wasn’t sure I fully understood. But there was no pressure, no expectation. He was content, and that quiet companionship was enough.

        I thought about it for a moment—how rare it was for someone to just sit with you without saying anything, without the need to fill the silence with words. I’d become so accustomed to the noise and chaos that I had forgotten how peaceful such quiet moments could be. He wasn’t in a rush to talk, to move, to break the stillness. He just… sat there. Watching. And who was I to take that away from him? In a way, it felt like an unspoken bond between us, a shared moment of calm in the midst of everything else. So, I did nothing to disturb it.

        I dipped my brush back into the paint, carefully blending the shades, lost in the process. Every so often, I would clean the brush off on my pants. My hands and thigh of my pants were stained with the pigment, but it didn’t matter. I was focused on the small, steady rhythm of my work. The fire flickered beside us, its warmth creeping into the air around us, but the world felt far away.

        Time seemed to pass differently when I wasn’t thinking about it when you're absorbed in something as simple as painting. Though not long after, I felt a shift in the air—the unmistakable sound of someone shifting position, stretching, and standing up. I glanced to my left and saw Dempsey, finishing whatever he had been doing with his gun. He wiped his hands on his pants before stretching his arms over his head, letting out a low grunt. His eyes found Takeo, and a knowing smile crept across his face.

        It didn’t take long for Dempsey to notice that Takeo, who normally kept to himself, had moved over to sit next to me. The curiosity was evident in his eyes, and he stood up with a stretch, walking over to where we were sitting. He didn’t say anything immediately, just stood there for a moment, looking down at the journal I had opened in my lap. His eyes flicked over the sketch and the small paint strokes, and for a moment, I felt like I was being scrutinized.

        Dempsey wasn’t the type to keep quiet for long, and I half expected him to make a sarcastic comment or crack a joke, but he surprised me. His voice was casual, but there was an unmistakable interest in it. “Looks good,” he said, peering down at the flowers, then glancing at Takeo, who remained silent. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

        I nodded, a little smile playing at the corner of my lips. “Thanks,” I muttered, my voice soft, not wanting to break the fragile peace that had settled around us.

        After a while of pacing back and forth, Dempsey finally seemed to tire of the restless movement and plopped down beside me on my other side. Now, I found myself with not one, but two people watching me closely. The weight of their gazes from both sides was a little unnerving, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the work I had been so focused on was somehow suddenly inadequate. I glanced down at the flowers I had painted so far, and, of course, they looked just fine. But with Dempsey’s broad shoulders to my right and Takeo’s quiet presence to my left, I felt a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my chest.

        It was strange. When I was by myself, painting felt like an escape, a way to express myself without the pressure of anyone else’s judgment. But now, with them both observing, even if they didn’t say a word, my confidence faltered. I always felt like my art didn’t look as good when I was being watched. Every brushstroke seemed less certain, every line less sure, and I had the urge to erase everything and start again—though I knew that wouldn’t really fix anything.

        The fire crackled beside us, but its warmth didn’t seem to ease the tension in my shoulders. I dipped my brush into the navy blue, trying to focus on the background. Just concentrate, I told myself. Ignore them. Keep painting. But every time I lifted my hand to apply the next stroke, I could feel their eyes on me, making me second-guess every decision.

        It wasn’t long before the other two—Edward and Nikolai—noticed the small gathering we had formed. I could see them from the corner of my eye, standing together by the fire, talking in low voices. They paused, exchanging a glance, then walked over in our direction. Their footsteps were soft on the ground, the crunch of dirt and gravel barely audible over the fire’s crackling.

        Edward was the first to break the silence, his tone light and teasing. “What’s this? A little art club forming over here?” he asked with a small chuckle, his gaze shifting between the three of us. There was a playful curiosity in his voice, but it was clear that he wasn’t expecting to see such a peaceful gathering in the middle of everything else. Nikolai stood beside him, leaning against a rock, his arms crossed, an amused smirk on his face.

        I didn’t say anything at first. I was still too focused on trying to ignore the tension that had crept into my chest. But I couldn’t help but feel a little self-conscious now, with them both standing there, observing us. “Just… painting,” I murmured, my voice quieter than usual, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the anxiety or just the weight of the moment.

        Dempsey nudged me with his elbow, his tone still casual. “Not bad, huh?” He grinned, obviously not bothered by the extra eyes on the work, while Takeo remained silent, still lost in his own thoughts, but his eyes never strayed far from the painting.

        I felt a slight heat rise to my cheeks. “It’s nothing special,” I said quickly, trying to brush off the attention. But as I glanced at the work again, I realized it had come together better than I had anticipated. The flowers, though simple, had a certain warmth to them, and the background of the deep navy was starting to make the colors pop in a way that made it feel more alive. Still, with all four of them gathered around me now, I couldn’t shake the feeling of vulnerability, of being exposed.

        Nikolai raised an eyebrow, a smirk still playing on his lips. “It looks like more than ‘nothing special’ to me,” he remarked, looking down at the page with genuine interest. “You sure you didn’t take some extra time while we weren’t looking?” His tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of approval there, and it made me feel a little better.

        Edward, who had been watching me with his usual amused expression, took a step closer. “You’ve got some talent,” he said, his voice sincere despite the playful edge. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

        I shrugged, trying to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s just a hobby,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to downplay it. Maybe I just didn’t want anyone to make a bigger deal out of it than it was.

        The moment was oddly still, the fire crackling softly in the background, the weight of the night settling around us. Even with them all standing there, watching me, something about the simple act of painting still gave me a sense of peace, a small respite from the madness of everything else. I could feel the tension easing off my shoulders just a little bit, despite the nagging anxiety that tried to cling to the edges of my mind.

        "Thanks, guys," I said with a soft, easing breath, feeling the tension in my chest start to loosen as I looked up at them. "I didn’t think you all would be so interested. Well, maybe not most of you," I added with a light chuckle. "I’ve seen Richtofen sketch from time to time."

        The words felt a little awkward coming out, but they were true. I hadn’t expected any of them to pay much attention to what I was doing, especially with everything else going on. We were constantly moving, constantly preparing for the next fight, the next threat. The idea of sitting down and quietly working on something like this in the middle of all that had felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford. Yet here they were, gathered around me, watching in silence, or in Dempsey’s case, offering casual comments. It was a strange feeling, having their attention focused on something so personal, something I rarely shared.

        I glanced over at Dempsey, who had leaned back against a rock, arms crossed, clearly enjoying the moment in his own way. His usual gruff demeanor seemed softened like he was taking in the rarity of it all. Takeo, sat quietly at my side, still absorbed in the painting, his posture steady and calm. Even Nikolai, who was usually quick to crack jokes or make sarcastic comments, was silently watching with something like quiet approval in his eyes.

        And then there was Richtofen. He had always been the odd one out in our group when it came to such things. The eccentric scientist seemed to have a constant need to document everything around him, often sketching or writing down observations, whether it was related to the madness we were stuck in or something far more abstract. I had caught glimpses of his journals from time to time—notes scribbled in his unique handwriting, odd diagrams, and sketches that only made sense to him. He was always observing, always looking for patterns or hidden meanings in the chaos.

        For a moment, the group fell into a quiet rhythm, each of us lost in our own thoughts. I turned my attention back to the painting, the brush in my hand steady as I added a few final touches to the flowers. The conversation around me faded into the background, the light chatter and quiet murmurs creating a strangely comforting atmosphere. It was a fleeting moment of calm in the midst of everything that had been happening.

        After a while, I finally managed to finish the last few strokes, each one feeling more deliberate than the last. I set the brush down, letting out a small sigh of relief as I pulled my hand back from the journal. My eyes took in the picture before me, and I allowed myself a moment to just observe it in its entirety. The flowers, their maroon and white petals blending seamlessly into each other, the deep green stems curving delicately beneath the soft yellow accents, and the navy blue background that brought everything together in a way I hadn’t expected. It was simple, but there was something about it that felt complete, something that resonated deeply within me.

        I leaned back slightly, taking a few steps away to get a better look at it, giving my mind time to adjust to the image I’d created. I couldn’t help but notice how the colors had come together in a way that made it seem almost… alive like the flowers were blooming right before my eyes. Each petal held its own character, every stroke of paint carrying a little piece of me, a little piece of the moment.

        A smile slowly spread across my face as I stood there, allowing myself to feel proud of what I had just done. It wasn’t anything extraordinary in the grand scheme of things, but to me, it felt like an achievement. A tiny, fleeting moment of beauty in the middle of a world that had so often been defined by violence, survival, and endless chaos.

        I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken time to do something like this—just sit. I could breathe, like I wasn’t just a soldier, a survivor, or part of a group trying to fight their way through the madness. I was simply me, and this painting was a piece of that person.

        I glanced over at my companions, who had quietly observed my work throughout the process. They were still in their places—Dempsey leaning back against a boulder, Nikolai standing nearby with his arms crossed, Richtofen sitting with me, and Takeo, who had remained silent throughout, now looking at the painting with quiet intensity.

        They hadn’t said much as I painted, but I could feel their presence, their attention, in a way that made the moment feel even more significant. It wasn’t just that I had created something—I had shared it with them. I didn’t know what they thought of it exactly, but I could tell they appreciated the fact that I had taken the time to do something that wasn’t just about survival. It was about creating, about living in a moment of peace, however fleeting it might be.

        I glanced down at the picture again, taking in its full glory. The simple flowers now felt like a quiet triumph, a testament to the fact that, even in this world, moments of beauty could still exist. A warm smile tugged at my lips, and for a second, I almost forgot about everything else.

        As I stood there, taking it all in, I felt a deep sense of contentment settle over me. Maybe it was silly, maybe it was small, but it was a moment of peace in a world that rarely offered any. And for now, that was enough.