Eloquence

Kakyoin Is An Artist, If Only He Could Shut Up

"Hold still." The light is perfect, the shadows from the tree outside Holly's window casting patterns on Jojo's skin almost as if he is underwater. "You're beautiful."

Kakyoin does not hear what he has said until he has half sketched the the shape of Jojo's torso, and by then it's too late to stutter an apology. Jojo doesn't seem to mind, anyway, sitting sideways in a chair with his feet thrown up on the table and his hat pulled down over his eyes so there is only shadow and then those perfect lips and maybe a suggestion of his jaw. If he didn't know better, Kakyoin might think the man is posing. But he does know better, knows that Jojo isn't one to think about the angle of sunlight skimming over his skin.

Avdol is praying in another room. After that he will stay there, stretching life back into his ruined body. Being swallowed and spat back out by a void of infinitely unknowable nothingness gave him shattered bones and the first touches of grey in his hair. The Speedwagon foundation did what could be done for his bones, but left his hair well enough alone. Mr. Joestar had told him, cheerfully, that it was about time he lost that irritating look of perpetual youth. Polnareff had punched Avdol in the shoulder and told him he looked more dashing than ever with a bit of salt and pepper. Avdol, eyes watering, had clutched his shoulder and done his best to smile. Kakyoin had sat down and pulled out his favorite charcoal pencil and fixed the shading in his picture of Avdol fighting a beast made of darkness.

He flips the page back away from the outline of Jojo to look at Avdol and Magician's Red weaving flame into the - well, there isn't anything there yet. For one thing, Kakyoin isn't quite sure how to draw nothing. For another... he's not sure he wants to, exactly. It reminds him too much of blindness and the smell of disinfectant, and as much as he knows it would help the drawing, he doesn't feel ready to revisit that particular memory.

He looks back to Jojo's neck, and realizes that his view is blocked by Jojo's high collar. "Could you take that off for me?" he murmurs. "It's in my way."

"What is?"

"Your jacket. I was trying to get the shadows on your jawline, but the collar's too high..." Kakyoin is shading in the bottom of Jojo's lip, not listening to himself.

Jojo shrugs out of his heavy coat.

Kakyoin realizes, abruptly, what he has just asked. "Oh, no, I'm sorry man, I didn't mean to - uh- that is- I-" He shrinks down behind his sketchbook and hopes that Jojo will not see that his face has turned the same color as his hair. He just asked Jojo to undress for him. Hadn't even thought about it, had just let his mouth run as freely as his pencil. Now Jojo will think that the drawing is some cheap excuse to get him out of his clothes, that Kakyoin has... Kakyoin has... taken an interest in him in a way that goes beyond art practice. Why couldn't Kakyoin just draw the jacket as it was? He stifles a groan and tries to focus on the shapes that the light makes on Jojo's throat. That's all he wanted in the first place, of course, a clear view of the place where jawline meets neck. Now that he has it, he'd best take advantage while it lasts.

He reaches the seam of Jojo's shirt and does not ask him to take it off, just scribbles out the way that the fabric rests on its wearer without thinking about the underlying structure of muscle.

The drawing comes out lopsided and strange. It reminds him of that one art class...

Kakyoin is blushing already. He feels foolish and immature and embarrassed, and if he weren't scared of looking even more childish than he feels, he'd be running out the door.

Life models. Experienced artists have the magical ability to look at a person as objectively as they would a bowl of fruit, to draw every detail without a hint of self-consciousness. Rookies giggle, or blush, or both, or they bluster about with "It's just a body!" or even the self-assured "Nothing I haven't seen before" to hide their nerves.

Today the giggling is stifled and the blushing more pronounced. The blustering has stopped altogether. Someone is drumming a pencil on a desk, pace increasing until it is replaced by a sharp smack - presumably from an irritated neighbor.

The model is a woman. Girls sigh in relief all around the room. Kakyoin does not. He twists his hand in his hair, forces himself to drop it again. Fights the urge to bite his nails.

It's not like he's never attempted to draw naked people before. But there's a difference between imagination and seeing something quite literally in the flesh.

She is real. She has flyaway hairs and a slight curve to her stomach and - Kakyoin is in the front row, the best seat on any other day and perhaps on this one too if only he could calm down - a few tiny scars on her leg. She has a bruise on the side of her hip and she has freckles on her shoulders. Kakyoin feels as if he is fighting against himself, both looking and not looking, trying to draw the shape of her body without seeing it. Half of him wants to apologize for invading her privacy and the other half wants to apologize for failing to draw her properly.

He fails the assignment. His drawing is full of blank spaces and bad proportions, patched together by blurry guesswork.

"We have models for a reason," says his teacher. "If you have a reference, use it. Get over your embarrassment or it's an insult to her hard work."

"Sorry, Jojo." Kakyoin tears out the unfinished drawing. "I botched it. But you can move now." He tries not to let his frustration bleed into his voice but he thinks he's failed, probably.

Jojo's hand reaches for the upside-down paper, hesitates over it. Asking for permission.

"Go ahead, I guess. But it doesn't do you justice." Yes, that's definitely bitterness Kakyoin hears in his own voice. Years of training, and he still ruins perfect times like this when the light ripples across the skin of one of the most beautiful people he knows.

Jojo does not turn over the drawing. He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair and leaves.

Kakyoin slumps over onto the table with his sketchbook digging into his stomach. His pencil rolls onto the floor.