trashcan (literal trash)

Fake ( oneshot )

This is going to be really short eyyy

I was thinking of the ship I'd use this on, but IwaOi seemed the most suitable for this kind of plot.

Well. . . IwaOi kinda does fit in all kinds of storylines LMAO
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He was a mage who died in battle.

He was a mage who risked his life for the sake of his people, his town, his family.

He was a mage who feared nothing.

He was a mage who was lonely. . . yet could provide unequalled comfort.

He was a mage who had left behind a hopeless painter who could do nothing but stare at his artworks and attempt to sell them on the dirty streets by night and day, to uninterested people who wrapped themselves in gray cloaks and black suits wearing bitter expressions.

He was Hajime, an impulsive, brave and selfless warrior who may have lacked wit, but had all the courage and valour in all of the planet.

He had befriended many, many people, captured the hearts of a thousand women and gained the respect of a million noblemen. He outshined his superiors, he excelled in spellcasting, he had a natural air of charm about him that could make any artist writhe in a sudden burst of inspiration.

But that inspiration was painful, for his downfall, along with all else, showed the true meaning of honor, and it was what Tooru had been looking for, all his life.

Tooru had painted scenes, abstract art portraying intellect, bravery, affection, compassion, portraits of legendary heroes and even fictional ones. Yet never had he completed a piece which contained the emotion called love, and of honor, for he had never tasted such things, never had seen, such as freedom, and he couldn't bring himself to lift that brush and start completing an artwork that portrayed as such.

And by this time, he couldn't bring himself to draw anything, for he felt empty.

For he, who taught the lowly painter what emotions were, he, who told the filthy painter of what the world was like when bathed in golden light, he, who held the dishonorable painter's scarred hands, he, who made a simple painter's monochrome point of view ever so colorful, was now ceasing to exist.

And so was Tooru's will to accept what was done and what was not, and to accept what he had and what he didn't.

"I promise, you'll be rich one day, Tooru. You'll go far with your talents, honestly! You'll travel the world! I bet you'd get lost on the way, though." The brunette remembered Hajime's words as he pushed the doors to the mage's study open.

The hinges creaked and muttered protests as they were all strewn with rust, and the oak was barely holding on. It had been seven years. Seven long years, and it was enough to drain the life out of the once-dynamic and cozy little study they hung out in.

Tooru approached the wooden table which once glowed with enchantment and mindblowing circles of magic, that spun around with runes and the soft whirring of the spellcasting system, which the shorter male had once tried to explain to him. Remembering the times they had gone through together, Tooru couldn't help but choke on his words.

"You're technically 23, damnit. Yet you're still so immature. . ." He muttered to himself as he traced the carving on the mage's desk. It was the symbol, the crest that would give you the rights and privileges that the higher class casters were granted, but, also, the weight of the responsibilities that these special beings had to shoulder.

He was only sixteen when he marched up to the front lines, vision obscured by the thick stream of blood that flowed down his face, left arm torn off and equipment blown away, and chanted a massive self-destruct spell that everyone in the town who was capable of magic, had been taught.