butterflies, eww | s.itoshi

002

you were somewhat at peace with everything going on in your life, considering you met your best friend after so long and possibly a new friend who, unfortunately, has to put up with double the chaos bachira already causes. your art career is progressing smoothly yet slowly. even though your family was long forgotten and shut out, which you weren't bothered by, there were two nagging voices at the back of your head, distorted and glazed with unnerving familiarity, arguing with your own.

"aww, they aren't coming?"

"of course they wouldn't, silly,"

"shut up, shut up, shut up," you gritted through your teeth in a whisper, your nose scrunching slightly before looking at bachira and isagi, the latter concerned due to your sudden change of attitude while bachira looked at you as if he knew. he does but he doesn't know. he senses the tension and thankfully breaks it.

"sooo, isn't it time for the interview, y/n?" he asks in a cherry tone, nervous however, as he checks the time. you look over and realise there's only 30 minutes till your have to answer the criticism and admiration of the visitors, with no one but you and a screen projector.

lovely.

soon the east hall was first packed with tired yet interested yawns and opened notepads of college and high school students while isagi and bachira sat on the front row. the elderly from the near retirement home stepped in next, all talking pleasantly about most of the paintings except for one. lastly the critics and magazine editors entered, quietly but their steps were loud, obnoxiously loud with insults. the usual crowd of one of your exhibits, it's going to be fine.

however you were unaware of a fourth party coming in dragging cameras and the media desperately trying to get an answer from an unbothered teenager.

oh great.

he wore plain clothes; a simple white t-shirt and black jeans with random sneakers but you loved his varsity jacket. it wasn't those simple ones with a number and a random american school's name but it was littered with words in graffiti with a white marker on it's black canvas. 'make way, idiots' was an interesting phrase in your opinion for this nobody that was fawned over like a foreign prince. the silver chain hanging from his neck had a cerulean pendant matching his eyes but oh my lord his hair.

it was an auburn, resembling the dried autumn leaves of november and a maroon silk book cover as the poets would say. but you weren't a poet and you weren't one to hold your thoughts back either. it was a dump of the chips of a broken mahogany table in your eyes, the wind must have been his hair-stylist, having played with the boy's hair making it look like a 4 year-old's sculpture of the himalayas. you hoped the colour was a terrible dye job that would pass in a couple months. an interesting thing that caught your eye however was justin bieber's emo twin behind him but far away enough to go unnoticed in the pictures and the paparazzi but still walk with the stranger even though they failed to acknowledge each other.

you glance at bachira and isagi who were shocked at the sudden entrance of a familiar person by the looks of it. isagi was the most fazed, looking like he was about to pass out from the sight of the mysterious person.

bingo.

the media settled down at the back of the hall while the two newcomers sat in the top left corner of the empty back row, the nearest to the doors, with one seat in between them. were they waiting for someone else?

an employee of the gallery set up the slideshow regarding your artworks on display. the interview went smoothly while you explained the thought processes that you went through during their creations while glancing at the two boys in the corner from time to time with curiosity. occasionally you answered questions about the paintings' meanings from both college students and critics which both had majorly different answers, thankfully you prepared beforehand with rehearsals infront of the bathroom mirror and the tenth coffee cup of the day.

now the most anticipated moment arrived, the last painting; reflections. the painting depicted a young child staring into a broken mirror with the reflections of an older woman and a grotesque, gnarled image of their own alternating between shards which originate at the center of the mirror; right in front of both the woman's and child's heart.

'don't cry.' you thought as you smiled towards the audience before explaining the image. the young child stares in the mirror, unaware of who they should be; their 'perfect', older sister or their real, unapologetic self with all their flaws unaccepted by society, especially their family. the shards highlighting their conflicting conscience and the multiple differences between the child and sister which originate from their own feelings and ideas which are destroying both of them slowly. they're a reflection of each other and complete opposites at the same time which neither of them is willing to admit or even realise.

applause was scattered through the hall, lost gazes clapping slowly and smiles of interest watched you descend from the stage, concluding the interview. you glanced over the mysterious duo in the corner and saw that they had their noses scrunched and faces turned away, their backs slightly facing each other. they haven't spoken or even looked at each other throughout the whole interview or when they sat down. 'that's weird.' you thought as bachira and isagi came to congratulate you even more. isagi had a new-found respect for you and your ideas, praises upon praises filled with admiration tumbling out of his mouth unconsciously.

"hello, i'm davodi gillian," a nervous voice spoke behind you while bowing, belonging to a brunette with red glasses, "we spoke over the phone about the partnership between you and one of our players, miss l/n."

ah yes, the god forsaken partnership between an alleged football 'prodigy' and you, a struggling artist.

seems very believable, right?

apparently this football star had a terrible media presence with his constant uncaring attitude and insults towards not only the reporters but japanese football all together. his poor manager didn't know what to do to help calm the waters until he had the bright idea of a partnership with a small artist or public group. and somehow your name popped up on his list strangely. even stranger is that the 'prodigy' chose you out of a multitude of easier options. you weren't complaining though; you were getting major publicity and payed quite a hefty amount for this so the partnership deal was too good to pass on. you were warned about the player's attitude beforehand, to give you an idea of what you should expect and that you couldn't back out because of it. however you dealt with numerous egotistical idiots, so to not be afraid of an immature princess who throws tantrums when things don't go his way was one of your special skills.

what surprised you however was the mysterious duo walking towards the two of you, the mahogany hair holding an annoyed gaze at nothing in particular and the ash pile looking downwards with a scowl.

"it's a pleasure meeting you mr davodi and may i know who the player is? it wasn't spoken about during the phone call and i believe we both forgot to say in the emails," you said bowing, hoping to every god in existence to prove you wrong.

"are you that idiotic? it's such an important thing and you couldn't even remember to ask?" the annoyed gaze was then fixed on you, raising a brow as the mahogany haired boy pursed his lips, "the paintings are incredibly intricate and serious, unlike it's stupid creator, it seems."

"sae please not today," gillian was exasperated, not even a hello and the princess went straight to his tantrums.

"well, why don't you introduce yourself then? i'm l/n y/n, the artist you will be working with for the next few months," you bowed only slightly, keeping your gaze on the arrogant boy in front of you.

"itoshi sae."

notes: i'm thinking of writing a bachira fic, i already have the idea but would you guys be interested?