50 je-prompts: #019. paper
rating/genre: PG, supernatural au, romance, fluff
pairing(s): Ohmiya
words: 764
summary: Ohno tries to draw beauty but there’s always something missing. Then he dreams of Nino.
disclaimer: fiction.
notes: lack of both a beta and proper research probably means you will have to suspend your disbelief at some point. c/c welcome. japanglish notes - engawa = japanese porch, yukata = kimono lite version, inkstone = a stone for inkz, kappa/tengu/kitsune = badass youkai mofos. Also just realised there's no dialogue yet whatsoever; curse of Ohno??
we traced each others' outlines in the morning: part one
When Ohno draws, he draws as if the world is merely an obstacle in the path of true beauty and thus should be ignored. He begins at the crack of dawn, when the dew has barely settled on blades of the grass surrounding the engawa and the cry of birds exchanging greetings can be heard in the distance. It is just himself, the cushion he settles into with his knees bent underneath him, the low wooden table with paper stacked neatly upon it, his ink and his brush. The space around the table is bare of embellishments and from where he sits Ohno has a clear view of his garden; it is flourishing with life and the rains have given it a spurt of growth (perhaps a bit too much, as the weeds are beginning to dominate the plants that have been half heartedly tended to, and there are almost certainly snakes). The young man scratches his nose, adjusts the folds of his yukata and dips his brush into the ready inkstone.
Ohno illustrates from his imagination. He is not particularly one to draw from reality, not that he is unable to, but rather because his world merely consists of the house he and his parents reside in, the street market that he peruses on occasion to purchase new art materials or a lure that catches his eye, and the handful of friends he has procured from dance school. His life is stable, it is everyday, and while it is its own brand of beautiful it is not what Ohno wants to portray as of yet. The brush presses down with controlled pressure and a trail of ink is born within the nakedness of the slightly yellowed paper.
He draws animals; tigers that slink and pounce with a growl, vicious sharks that gnash their rows of teeth, birds soaring effortlessly through the sky (though Ohno tries to depict their effortlessness with hidden strength and control that cannot be seen by those on the ground). He draws mystical creatures that his mother has read stories of to him as a child; a kappa dripping with water and sharpened claws, a kitsune with tails splaying out in an arc above its agile body, a tengu with a long beak and wings for hands. The once blank papers are now marked with dozens of sketches. Sounds of people beginning to wake up are now a subtle rumble in the background. Ohno arches his back and stretches both arms high for a long moment, then shuffles the used papers into a haphazard pile. Beauty is still not quite in his reach.
He’s got a slouched back that looks a little lonely, as if it needs to lean against something (someone?) Dark hair with slight waves and kinks frame his thin face, and threaten to obscure his vision, which he defends against with a rough brushing away with his hands. His hands. They’re small and look so soft, what would they be like to hold? What would it be like to look into those eyes that are a surprisingly light caramel, and be the recipient of that wide smile that exposes too much gum but makes him want to sing? What would it be like to stand toe to toe with him, look him straight in the eyes, lean in and--
It is a morning like any other. The morning dew on the grass is the same, the bird cries are the same, the stark room, the table, the cushion, it’s all the same. Ohno is different.
Ohno’s strokes on the paper are deft and confident as they retrace the memories of his dream that still burns brightly in his mind. He draws the boy as if there is a photograph in front of him, ink quickly replicating the shape of his eyes, his round nose and the way his smile curves slyly. The boy is illustrated with arms folded into his sleeves, shoulders sturdy but legs slim. He doesn’t forget the smattering of moles on the boy’s face as he finishes the full body portrait. Once again, the world is waking up around him, but the portrait is the sole drawing that has been painted, the stack of unused paper tall. Ohno stretches, satisfied, and rises to have his morning meal, leaving the materials to be tidied later. He doesn’t see the paper rustle and lift off the table slightly by a nonexistent breeze. He doesn’t see the lines of ink peel away from the paper and evaporate into the air.
( to part two )
pairing(s): Ohmiya
words: 764
summary: Ohno tries to draw beauty but there’s always something missing. Then he dreams of Nino.
disclaimer: fiction.
notes: lack of both a beta and proper research probably means you will have to suspend your disbelief at some point. c/c welcome. japanglish notes - engawa = japanese porch, yukata = kimono lite version, inkstone = a stone for inkz, kappa/tengu/kitsune = badass youkai mofos. Also just realised there's no dialogue yet whatsoever; curse of Ohno??
we traced each others' outlines in the morning: part one
When Ohno draws, he draws as if the world is merely an obstacle in the path of true beauty and thus should be ignored. He begins at the crack of dawn, when the dew has barely settled on blades of the grass surrounding the engawa and the cry of birds exchanging greetings can be heard in the distance. It is just himself, the cushion he settles into with his knees bent underneath him, the low wooden table with paper stacked neatly upon it, his ink and his brush. The space around the table is bare of embellishments and from where he sits Ohno has a clear view of his garden; it is flourishing with life and the rains have given it a spurt of growth (perhaps a bit too much, as the weeds are beginning to dominate the plants that have been half heartedly tended to, and there are almost certainly snakes). The young man scratches his nose, adjusts the folds of his yukata and dips his brush into the ready inkstone.
Ohno illustrates from his imagination. He is not particularly one to draw from reality, not that he is unable to, but rather because his world merely consists of the house he and his parents reside in, the street market that he peruses on occasion to purchase new art materials or a lure that catches his eye, and the handful of friends he has procured from dance school. His life is stable, it is everyday, and while it is its own brand of beautiful it is not what Ohno wants to portray as of yet. The brush presses down with controlled pressure and a trail of ink is born within the nakedness of the slightly yellowed paper.
He draws animals; tigers that slink and pounce with a growl, vicious sharks that gnash their rows of teeth, birds soaring effortlessly through the sky (though Ohno tries to depict their effortlessness with hidden strength and control that cannot be seen by those on the ground). He draws mystical creatures that his mother has read stories of to him as a child; a kappa dripping with water and sharpened claws, a kitsune with tails splaying out in an arc above its agile body, a tengu with a long beak and wings for hands. The once blank papers are now marked with dozens of sketches. Sounds of people beginning to wake up are now a subtle rumble in the background. Ohno arches his back and stretches both arms high for a long moment, then shuffles the used papers into a haphazard pile. Beauty is still not quite in his reach.
He’s got a slouched back that looks a little lonely, as if it needs to lean against something (someone?) Dark hair with slight waves and kinks frame his thin face, and threaten to obscure his vision, which he defends against with a rough brushing away with his hands. His hands. They’re small and look so soft, what would they be like to hold? What would it be like to look into those eyes that are a surprisingly light caramel, and be the recipient of that wide smile that exposes too much gum but makes him want to sing? What would it be like to stand toe to toe with him, look him straight in the eyes, lean in and--
It is a morning like any other. The morning dew on the grass is the same, the bird cries are the same, the stark room, the table, the cushion, it’s all the same. Ohno is different.
Ohno’s strokes on the paper are deft and confident as they retrace the memories of his dream that still burns brightly in his mind. He draws the boy as if there is a photograph in front of him, ink quickly replicating the shape of his eyes, his round nose and the way his smile curves slyly. The boy is illustrated with arms folded into his sleeves, shoulders sturdy but legs slim. He doesn’t forget the smattering of moles on the boy’s face as he finishes the full body portrait. Once again, the world is waking up around him, but the portrait is the sole drawing that has been painted, the stack of unused paper tall. Ohno stretches, satisfied, and rises to have his morning meal, leaving the materials to be tidied later. He doesn’t see the paper rustle and lift off the table slightly by a nonexistent breeze. He doesn’t see the lines of ink peel away from the paper and evaporate into the air.
( to part two )