Lives in Brick and Stone

The empty room

He didn’t often pass by this place. When he did, he was reminded once again of how much he had lost. He had heard the saying that people didn’t know what they had until it was gone and only then did they appreciate what they still had left. He supposed that if anyone’s life was a good example of that saying it had to be him. He had once called the apartment complex he passed in front of his home. He had once lived in those walls. Even at that time, he had looked upon it as something that it wasn’t. He had always taken for granted what he had in his life. But now, he could only look back upon his life and see what it was he had once had. It was a painful experience to do so though. It was hard to walk past this place and know that once, he had walked up that rickety, rusted stairway to the second floor of the complex. It was hard to know that once, he had stood in front of one of those almost identical doors and turned the key in the lock and gone inside. He had gone inside, where were was warmth and food and shelter. Now, the door with the missing numbers was missing an inhabitant. It had been missing one for months. For those many months, he had lived from day to day, from shelter to shelter.

It was rather funny. He was sure that if anyone would look at him now, no one would ever have known who he was. In a way, that might have been better. It was better than thinking that someone might recognize him. He wasn’t so desperate yet to accept pity. He was sure that one day, when things got too hard, he would be, but for right now, he still had his dignity. He might not have his art, he might not have money. He might not even have a home to go to anymore, but he had his pride. What was left of it anyway. It was hard to keep ones pride when the rain was pouring and the stomach was growling. It might have been even more of a surprise if they had known what he had been like even before he had ended up in that poor apartment complex in one of the most dangerous sides of town.

He was Atobe Keigo. He had born to the lap of luxury. He had once had everything he had ever wanted or needed. He wasn’t so old that he couldn’t remember what life had been like as a young child. He remembered the days he had spent in countries most children only learned of. His father was a wealthy businessman. He sometimes was sure that his father must somehow own a steak in ever facet of the city. Not only this city, but a great many in countries all around the world. He had gone as a child, carted off from place to place, his nurses and his maids caring for his needs while his mother and father were busy with other things.

It had been one of his nurses that had first taken him to an art museum as a child. Atobe ahd been crying that day. It was his birthday. He had been six. But his father had decided the year before that birthdays were pointless. He had gotten gifts, of course. But they had not been from father and mother, even though the names were on it. Mother had been at a spa for the week before and could not shop and father had been busy with clients as always. The gifts he had gotten had been practical. Things for a young boy who was about to start off at a highly prestigious pre-school where the children of only the richest and most affluent and influential people started off their education. He had been crying that day, because he had been sad. He had been sad because his parents didn’t find him important enough to postpone their lives and take care of him.

His nurse had found him, sitting in his huge room and confronted him about it. “Young master Atobe. What reason have you to cry on this day?” He had sobbed all the more while he tried to explain something he didn’t’ even really understand as a child. He tried to explain to his nurse his feelings of abandonment. She had only smiled at him, dried his tears and told him that the best way to fix things was to get him out of the house. She had done just that and taken him to the place that would change his life forever. She took him to a museum of fine art. He had been overwhelmed by it all. As a small child, he had not known how to act at first. He had all but run from room to room, display to display, dragging his elderly nurse from sculpture to painting, each one seeming even more wonderful than the next.

He’d finally stopped before an amazing watercolor. It had been so beautiful, so moving. A beautiful ballerina stretched and prepared to dance, frozen in glorious eternity. Though there were hundreds of other pictures to see , hundreds of other sculptures to look at, he stood before that one picture from the time he had seen it until the time that the museum was almost closed for the day. He had only left when he had gotten the nurse to promise to once again take him there.

They had visited the museum a great many times after that. Each time, no matter where they might look, he would always end up before that same artist’s paintings. He truly loved how they looked. He thought that they made him happy. If they made such an unhappy and lonely child such as him happy, then art could make anyone happy. It was on his forth or fifth visit that Keigo decided that he really liked art. Not only that, he decided that he wanted to try art too. It was a great deal of convincing to get his nurse to buy him his first watercolor set. That had only been the start.

His father had been amused at first, when he had gotten home with the paints and started out. It was simply something for a little boy to do to learn his colors and shapes. But even amusement had not stopped the stern and strict man from firing the woman who had been his nurse and hiring someone else in her place. It was because she had taken the young master out without permission, even if it did expand his horizons. But even that did not stop his painting.; it did not stop Keigo’s art. In fact, once he was denied the museums, he started making a small museum himself. While his family mansions all over the globe had art, it was always the stanch and minimalist. There had been no shape to it, no color. No life. It had been just like his father. Stark, drab, unfeeling, Keigo’s art was different. He loved colors. He loved bright and brilliant colors. He loved sweeping broad statements of form and beauty. He loved realism and he loved impressionism. Anything that was art, Keigo enjoyed to the fullest.

As he grew older, his father thought his passion would fade. It did not. It continued to grow. His talent grew as well. Though he was a good child and a good student and a good heir, his art was just one thing he refused to give up. He would do everything his father required of him. He forced himself to get the very best grades, losing friends he might have in order to spend that time studying. He joined whatever clubs was proper for a young gentleman. But he also secretly joined the art club. At school, when others were eating with their friends in the cafeteria, Keigo would be in the art room, drawing or painting. He had made sure that his father would never find out. After all, as he grew, the man’s opinion of his passion had changed.

It was no longer amusing to the man. His son was not supposed to become an artist. There was no future in it. As the heir to a huge fortune and a business empire, Keigo was supposed to follow after his father. He was to go to the same schools. He was to even go to the same college in the far off future. He was supposed to take the same classes and one day, he was going to marry a trophy wife just like his mother and produce a son. He was to one day bring a child into the world who was just like himself and start the cycle all over again, with himself in his father’s place and his son in his. But that was not what Keigo wanted. He wanted to be an artist. He wanted to paint and he wanted his paintings to make people as happy as he had been made happy. As happy as he felt when he was painting or drawing. It was a happiness that he had never felt when he was doing anything else.

He was very unhappy when his paints were taken from him. His father had done it a few times as he had gotten older. There had been numerous times when he would come back to the summer mansion only to discover that his paints and canvases had been used to start the fireplace burning. It was one of the few times after his youngest, most tender years that he had actually wept. Never in front of his father though. He would return to his rooms in the mansion and stare at the place where he’d kept his art things and cry softly for their lost. However, days later, he would go and purchase new ones. The lost was never enough to stop him. It was never enough to dissuade him. In fact, the disapproval was probably what drive him on. At the time, he had thought that it was the mark of an artist to suffer for their art. At that time, he had not truly known real suffering. Now, when he looked back on those halcyon days , Keigo knew he had truly been childish and blind to the real world.

The real world started to really show itself to him when he had finally gone and left the path that had been trod before him. He had decided that he could no longer follow his father. He could not be his father. He was Keigo. He was not his father. He could not do what his father had done. His father might have followed his grandfather’s steps, but Keigo had to follow his own path. He had decided that the moment he had seen that painting of the ballerina when he was six. It was harder than he though it would be. His desire to be his own man had been a painful one. No Atobe heir had ever gone against the path. It was given that he would go into business. He wanted to do what he wanted to do.

The argument had been a brutal one. It was loud. There was shouting. There was never shouting in the mansion. That house was a silent house. Voices were never raised. Then again, it was sually the servants and Keigo in the house. His father had made a special trip, just to give him that lecture. He supposed that that might have been a part of the reason why there ahd been so much shoting. It was more because he had forced his father to leave something more important, like his business to deal with a wayward, thick headed child. He might have thought it a bit sad that this was what had brought his father away from work. Keigo might only see the man once a year as it was. It hurt just a little to know that his father didn’t care about his happiness and only cared about the future of the Atobe fortune and businesses.

The man had brust through the door, yelling his name loudly, causing the servents to scatter and find other places to be quite suddenly. Keigo knew just by the loudness that the word had gotten to the man that he had been considering not going to the same high school that his father had gone to. Keigo had been about to go into high school at the time but he had been looking around and found the school he had wanted. He had completed the application by himself. He supposed it was that application that had caught his father’s attnetion. He hadn’t gotten a guardian to sign it after all. He hadn’t been able to borrow the rubber stamper that his father used to sign his name on pointless things, such as the birthday and Christmas cards Keigo received from the secretary every year, under guise of being from his father. It was not a normal high school though. Keigo had found a rather prestigious art school.

He had not been looking for the school either. It had found him. He had just been looking for paints at his favorite store when he had been met by a nice young man who already went to the school. They had talked for a long while. Keigo had met the other again, later, to show the boy his artwork. The other had been so impressed, he had given the talented soon to be high schooler a brochure to the Hyoutai Institute of Fine Arts. A school not only for painting, but also for sculpture and dance and drama. He had fallen in love with the campus and the program without ever setting foot there. He had known he needed to go there if he wanted to presue his childhood dreams. So he had gotten the application and filled it out and waited. Waited and hoped. But not for this. Not for his father yelling his name though the house as if he had done something truly awful and sinful. Was it so awful to want to follow own path? Or perhaps, this was all a part of that suffering all great artists had to endure?

“Atobe Keigo, you will come into my presence right this instant!” He never hid from his father. He had no reason to be afraid of the man. He didn’t fear the man. But he also didn’t love the man. He saw so little of him that Keigo didn’t think anything at all of his father. His father was just a stranger to him, just as he was to his father. So when he faced the irate man, he had stood proud and tall, the smirk his father had taught him to wear upon his lips. The smirk he hated. Keigo would rather have smiled, like he did when he was painting. He hated wearing that fake face. It did nto falter, even when the man waved the letter in his face.

Keigo knew what it was. It was the acceptance letter to the school he dreamed of attending. Somehow, it had gone to his father and not to him. Perhaps it was because his father was the one who was supporting his financially. He was, after all, still only a minor. “Can you explain to me what this is?” The man demanded, waving that letter like it was the most odious scrap of trach that had ever come into his hands. Keigo was surprised the man had not just burnt it and made him go to the other school without another word about it. He wouldn’t put it past the man to burn the letter. Yet his father had it here and was shaking it in his face.

“It looks like an envelope to me, father.” He knew his glib words would not be appreciated. But it was just how he had been trained. It was the way of the Atobe family. He hated it. He hated the holier than thou attitude. But in the presence of his father, it was just how he had to be, hating it or not. Besides, it wasn’t like his father would ever strike him. No. the man was far too refined and uptight to ever physically harm him. There was no point to it.

“Don’t get smart with me, Keigo. I know very well that it’s an envelope. What is inside the envelope is what I want you to explain. An art school…Keigo…it’s high time you stop this foolishness and start seriously putting your future first.” He had heard it all before, when he had been younger. When he had nto stopped after a few years and the hobby ahd grown into a slight obsession. When the obsession became a part of his life. He had heard it even before painting had become like breathing to him.

“That’s right father. It’s an art school. It’s where I am going.” His voice was so proud. It was his father’s voice. He was stern and confident and immovable as the Rock of Gebralter. His father had wanted Keigo to become him, and so Atobe had, in his own way. He was just as proud and just as stubborn once he had made his mind up. He had made his mind up. He had made it up those many years ago. “I am going to that school, whether or not I have your blessing.”

His father’s eyes narrowed and the paper was crumpled in a shaking fist. Keigo had never seen his father so angry. He supposed in that position, he would have been to. He would have been furious if he had discovered that his only heir had decided to go off the reservation and do his own thing. Especially when it was impossible now to have another child. After all, mother was growing too old for having babies and she would refuse to ruin her perfect figure with another. Sure, he would have an affair, but that would take away from his work. No. Keigo was the soul Atobe hair and would always be. It was just too much work and effort to make a new one. So, his father’s ire was understandable in a way. However, Keigo had been raised to be selfish, and so he didn’t rightly care how much he might have put his old man out.

“Keigo…” The man’s tone was warning. “If you think I’m going to let you do this, you are sorely mistaken. If you insist on doing this I’m going to have to…”

Keigo suddenly cut the man off with an sharp gesture. He hated that as well. He wanted only to be artistic and gentle. He wanted only to create and to make others happy with his work. But for this, this he had to be strong. Unless he wanted his father to walk over him and run his life forever and ever, he had to do this now. He had to, regardless of what happened. It was either stand up for himself or lose everything he had ever wanted for himself. Though he was just about to be out of junior high, it was time that he finally acted as a man, regardless of the cost to himself. “You’re going to have to what, father? Disown me? Write me out of your will? That’s fine, father. Go ahead and do that if you must. It’s not going to change my mind. I’m doing this. I’m going to do this, with or without your help.”

There was a stunned silence on his father’s end. He supposed the man was indeed surprised at this. He’d never directly gone against the man’s will. It made him wonder if, once upon a time, his father had stood in front of his grandfather in this manner. He wondered if his father had once had his own hopes and dreams, different from the ones that came as a packaged deal along with that last name. If so, then his father had not had the courage to stand up before his father and dig in his heals and stand his ground. The silence did not last very long, just long enough to know that his conviction had really gotten to the man before him.

“Keigo…The art world is no place for an Atobe. But as you sem so dead set on ruining your life in pursuit of this foolish frivolity, so be it. As I still have my duties as a father to see to your education until you are of age, I will fund your education at this so called Art Institute. However, the moment you graduate, you are to leave this house and never return. You will no longer me my heir.” It was quite a threat really. He would only be eighteen years or age when he left the art institute and became a legal adult. In those short years, he ahd never worked at anything other than art and studying. If he didn’t make it in the art world… he would never again have the life he was accustomed to now. Never again would he be waited on hand and foot or know that there was a car waiting for him to drive him somewhere when the weather turned unpleasant. It would be a huge change from what he was used to, but to be his own man; to persue his own dreams, Keigo was willing to make that sacrifice. Besides, even if he had not been ready, he was the moment his father had said those world. Those words that made him laugh bitterly.

“Your duties as my father… Don’t make me laugh. You were never a father to me. You were never there for me. You never supported my dreams. It’s always been what you want.” It was his voice that raised now, letting go of all the resentment and anger and frustration he had felt for so many years. But it was okay now. It was okay because he was no longer the heir and thus he had the right to finally, finally speak his own mind. “You were never a father! You’ve always only been a check book with legs. You would have continued to go on ignoring me and forcing me to become you if that letter never came. Even now, you really don’t care what I want. You just try to discourage me. I won’t be discouraged by you.” For the first time in many many years, he could feel tears prick his eyes.

“That’s enough!” The man roared. He threw the letter at his son and turned heal to storm out. “You are out of the will. Keigo, I disinherit you. You want to destroy yourself then go right ahead. I said I’d pay for your school. Now, I believe this discussion is over. I have important business meetings to attend to. Good day to you, Keigo.” He had stood and watched the man stalk away from him. It hurt him so to see it. It hurt Keigo was much the second time he had seen his father walk away from him… right after he graduated the institute. He’d never really thought of his father as a father, but it was still so very painful to see that back as the man left him alone in that huge silent house.

Keigo tried hard to forget that argument. For a while though, it was obvious in his art that he’d had such an awful fight with someone that mattered to him. Though he had told himself for so long that he didn’t care about his family because they didn’t care about him, that it wouldn’t bother him. It did. He was still that same five year old little boy, crying in the darkness because his mother and father had better things to do with their lives then be with their only child. It made his once happy and vibrant paintings a little darker and a bit more sad. They were no less talented or beautiful, but it seemed that his hurting heart had translated quite passionately upon canvas. He could feel his muses slipping through his fingers with his sadness. Then he’d met the person that would become his angel and then his demon.

He had met the other artist while he was returning from to the school. He had been drawing that temple again. It was the second time he had come there. It had called to him. It felt that someone lived there. That temple seemed more like a home to him than the huge lonely mansion he returned to. A mansion that he knew he would have to leave the moment he was out of school. There was something warm about it, even though he never saw anyone coming or going from the place. But while waiting on the bus to take him back to the school and then back to his house until he graduated, he’d run into the sleeping artist who would ruin his life forever.

They had been in the same class at school, though the bleary eyed brunette was slightly older. The difference in their talents was obvious. Jirou was talented, that was true. It was impossible to get into such an elite art school unless the talent was there. Keigo’s talent was just that much brighter. He never attempted to compete with his fellow artist. He supposed it was because the other slept more than he painted. How the other slept. Keigo wondered how anyone could sleep that much. But then again, when his fellow artist wasn’t in the midst of a project, he was always sleeping. Even when Keigo had started bringing the sleepy artist to his mansion to ease the loneliness, all the other did was sleep.

That sleepy artist was the first real friend Keigo had ever had. He’d never bothered before. He’d never really had the chance. It was that friendship that returned his art back to what it had been before the fight with his father. It became bright and vibrant and full of life once more. Once again, his talent manifested in the way he could make even the most simple things beautiful. His talent bloomed even more so in his third year at the art institute. It had grow to the point where his instructors even convinced him to put some of his better work up in his own personal gallery. It was probably the proudest moment Keigo had ever had. Hanging his first painting up in the gallery had gave him a feeling that not being at the top of his class, or winning prizes for best at horse jumping. It gave him the same sort of feeling he got when he woke up in the morning right next to that sleepy, slightly less talented artist. After all, it had been because of Jirou that his art had grown even deeper. Keigo has started to paint with his heart as well as his natural talent.

It was just another thing he knew his father would have frowned on if he knew. But Keigo had already caused the man to disapprove of his life. He was already an artist, even if still in school. He had his own gallery and his name was already out there, gaining slow momentum in the world of collectors. So, his having a male lover was nothing new, when it came to the realm of being everything his father never wanted him to be. Not that they did much…Jirou was always sleepy when Keigo was in the mood. His love life was on the other’s schedule and he had to accept it when he got it. In retrospect, he realized it was like his relationship with his parents. Jirou only had time for him when Jirou wanted something from him. They only made love when the sleepy artist wanted, even if Keigo really didn’t at that time. It was not give and take. It was just take. Jirou had just took from him. But he had not seen it. He had been too blind at the time. He had only seen the rose colored world that was filled with the novelty of being in love with someone.

He found something he felt he’s always been missing, pillowed against the one that always seemed to be sleeping. It showed in his works. By the time he had graduated, Keigo’s art had truly grown. The gallery showing had done well and there were requests for a longer showing with more of his pieces. The life of wine and roses he shared with Jirou in the mansion he was about to be kicked out of was amazing. Life had never been better. It almost made him think that perhaps it was not true what others said. One didn’t have to suffer for one’s art. Even with how painful the graduation ceremony had been, he knew he had someone to lean on.

The ceremony had been a relatively short one. He knew his parents would not be there. He also knew that when he returned to the mansion, he would expect to see whatever luggage he was allowed to take with him out on the curb already for him to pick up. It had not been there as he had expected. In fact, what had been there waiting for him was his father. He wondered if the man was going to dissuade him one last time. Or perhaps congratulate him on his gallery opening. It was neither. He knew even before he reached the man at the door that he was going to get his goodbye lecture. He wished suddenly that he had Jirou with him. But the other artist was celebrating with his loving family somewhere, leaving Keigo to deal with his own family issues on his own…That, or Jirou was napping somewhere and didn’t have time to wake up and be his rock.

“Keigo. Come in. Sit down…” It was almost strangely wrong in a way. It felt wrong. His father had never acted so warmly to him. He wondered of perhaps someone had stolen his father and replaced him with a kinder gentler clone. It was a thought short lived. One moment he sat down, feeling all too uncomfortable and awkward about this final meeting, the elder Atobe started in. “I’d been hoping you would have seen the error of your ways, but you have not. You remember what I said four years ago.” He placed a paper before Keigo. The will. He swallowed. “I have done as I said because I am a man of my word. But Keigo, I will still allow you to use the Atobe name if you so choose. I will not take your identity from you along with your inheritance.” Keigo didn’t know if he should be grateful or not. He had never felt an attachment to that name. He even only signed his paintings as “Keigo”, and nothing else.

He leaned back into the all too comfortable chair and stared at the man. “Is that all you wished to say to me. I am sure you are more than ready to see me out of this house and out of your life.” Keigo hadn’t even begun to think about what he’d do or where he would go. Things had always worked out before. He had never not had things work out in such a manner. Surely, everything would be okay. After all, he had been saving his money and he was positive that his paintings would sell, as there was already calls for him to put those in he gallery on the market.

“I wasn’t done yet, Keigo. At least do me the courteous favor of sitting quietly and listening to the one thing I can give you. Advice.” He wanted to tell his father that he could do without. He didn’t really care anymore what the man said. The will was proof enough. It was proof that the man no longer viewed him as a son. He wondered if the man ever had. Still, the gift of father advice after so long of nothing was more than he could ever hope for. And now, looking back on things, he knew just how right his father had been, and how painfully naïve and far too proud of himself he had been not to listen.

“The art world, Keigo…is a cruel and capricious place. It is even worse than business, were ladder climbers and cut throat board plays. I know you probably resent me for forcing you to learn those things, but you will need it in this life you’ve chosen for yourself.”

The young artist did not have the heart to tell his father how he really felt. He really didn’t resent his father. Not in the way he suspected the other thought. He didn’t resent his father for forcing him to try and make him live his father’s life all over again. He resented his father because in all that time, the man had never once been there for him. His father had never seen to a thing he had been a part of. Though he had been forced to pursue certain sports and certain activities, his father was never there to watch him. He was never praised for his perfect grades. That was why he resented the man. Because the man had never ever been there, and now, he never would. That was clear. His father had never had his heart in mind, just the bottom line. But he knew he could not say those things. After so many years of distance and resentment, it might as well been a stranger sitting before him talking.

He had always been polite and so he could only sit there and watch the man who called himself his father. He could only take whatever the man said when a grain of salt. If the man wanted to give him advice, then Keigo would. It was the very least he could do to thank the man for allowing him to follow his own dreams, even at such a high price as this. He had a feeling though that the lecture would be long. He also felt that it would be more like his father was talking to a client instead of his son. He knew that because that had always been how he had been spoken to, like a business associate instead of a child.

He nodded politely at words he wasn’t really listening to. He didn’t want to hear how stupid his father thought he was being. He didn’t want to hear that though he was talented now, he might lose his talent sometime in the future. There was no future in art. Artists didn’t truly get fame until they were dead. He knew that, but he still was going to try his hardest in the life he had chosen. In the end, after the lecture came the advice. He was glad it was almost over. He couldn’t wait to get out of this stifling place he had called home to get back with Jirou and go apartment shopping with the small amount of money he had already made.

“As I said before, the art world is cruel. You might be in today, Keigo. You might be popular and the in thing. You might even be famous. But it’s a short lived fame. Soon, there will be a different artist. Someone who’s better who takes the art world by storm. You will be tossed aside and forgotten by this so called community that you love so much. Tell me what you will do then? You’ll lose everything, Keigo. And I’ll not support you.”

Keigo stood and dusted his palms over his pants. “If that is all…” He turned towards the door. “I realize you only want what you think is best for me. I am grateful for all you have done for me, father.” However, he was confident. He was confident that what his father said would not happen. Even if he didn’t sell a lot of paintings, so long as he sold a few a year, he would be okay. So long as he didn’t’ live frivolously as he once had, everything should work out. He truly believed that.

Keigo had left his father’s mansion for the last time. He had walked out of those doors as naive young artist. He had returned to Jirou with thoughts of the perfect future. Reality had not yet taken hold of him. He was till in that mind set he had always been. Nothing wrong could happen. Nothing at all. His world was as perfect and beautiful and wonderful as those works he painted and nothing at all could change that. That was what he had thought that that time.

It was difficult at first. He supposed it was because he was not used of anything so small as the apartment he had found. At first, it was nor the one he had wanted. He and Jirou had looked all over the city for apartments to rent out. Money was tight, even though Keigo had sold another piece. Jirou’s pieces weren’t selling, but Keigo was sure soon enough the movers and shakers in the art world would see what he saw in those more simplistic sleepy creations. But the needed a permanent place to stay. Keigo had wanted a place to call his home.

He had hated the apartment at first. He detested at how small it was. The entire room that he and his lover had called theirs could have fit into the foyer of the mansion he had lived in most his life. The wallpaper was ugly and peeling. The water for dishes and drinking tasted like minerals and rust. There was a tiny cramped bathroom with just a commode. It had been quite a change for him to half to walk a block in order to go to a public bathhouse. It had truly been a learning experience. Not just in the small space and the less than idea living area, but in other ways. Keigo had never learned to cook for himself. He had always had chefs and cooks and servants to do that sort of thing. The same thing with cleaning.

It had been a quick and painful dose of reality. His paintings and drawings had to be put aside for a moment until he could learn how to do all those things he had never learned to do before. He had to learn because his lover did more sleeping than house work. If he didn’t cook, they didn’t eat. If he didn’t clean, the apartment would suffer. But he also found that if he didn’t paint, they could do none of that. For such a small, dirty little place in such a cheap, dangerous neighborhood, the rent was something that could never be ignored. He had not known how true that thought was until much later. For now, even though he had been thrown into a new life that he had not been prepared for, Keigo was trying to make the best of it.

The art world helped a great deal. The gallery was doing so well. More than once, he had happily moved his unsold paintings to a larger venue. He graciously attended functions that revolved around his work and acted with genteel and impeccable manners to the critiques who came as well as to would be customers. He was sure that if his father could see him when he was interacting with his fans and his buyers and his critics, the old man would have been proud of him. He had taken those lessons to heart. If art was a business, then Keigo was the gracious young king of that world. He had never been happier. He had a home of his own, no matter how small and ill suited to him, he had someone to share his life with, no matter how narcoleptic and inattentive, he was doing well. When a review of his work showed up, he was more than happy to wake up Jirou to show him. He had hoped for some sort of happy exclamation. Maybe even some congratulative love making, as such good review of his work and such clamor for it meant he had finally made it.

Instead, his lover and merely looked at him for a second. He though the had seen a strange look in those bleary eyes. Then the other rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head, leaving Keigo to celebrate on his own. And he had so much to celebrate. Especially at the next gallery party. It had been like all the others. He met with a few of the people who were just dying to talk to the talented young artist and he had obliged them, but for the most part, Keigo had stuck to the corners to watch. He really didn’t like to be crowded. Besides, he could watch others better. He could see how people reacted to his art. He could see how happy he could make them with just a little paint of canvas. At that time, he thought he had seen a familiar strong and intimidating back.

His heart had stopped. He knew that back because he had seen it walk away from him once. His father. He didn’t know why. He really didn’t know why the man had come to it. His father, who had never wanting him to pursue art. The man who had written him out of a will and his life. That man had come. He left soon after, but Keigo had known what he had seen. A painting had sold that night. It had sold for more than he ever could imagine. Even now, he liked to think that it had been his father who had bought that piece. That even though he had been told by that man that he would never have support, that by following his own heart, he had won the man’s respect.

He’d thought happiness like that would never end. Which was why when everything started to go wrong, he was not only not prepared, but totally caught off guard. It had started very simply. He hadn’t really noticed at first. Sad really, seeing as how it had to do with his love. Now, his ex-lover. He had returned from grocery shopping to find the apartment empty. Jirou was not sleeping on their futon. He wasn’t anywhere to be found. Keigo assumed that the other was out doing something. But Jirou did not come back home that evening. Nor the one after that. He also started noticing other things. Some of his old sketchbooks that he had kept for sentential reasons were missing. He was sure that there was nothing connecting the two. His lover might have left him, but surely, surely, his old art had not been stolen.

Everything fell apart after that. The happy, fulfilled life he had grown used to crumbled as if it had been erected from sand. He was slowly waking from this dream and was plunged into a swift and unending nightmare. It came so hard and fast that he didn’t even understand how or why. All he knew was that at the next showing, he was accused of forgery. Suddenly he was being asked if the painting were his. Rumor suddenly ran rampant. Keigo was an art thief. He had stolen a better artist’s work and passed it off as his own. It was not true. He didn’t see how anyone at all could believe that. He tried hard to convince the first naysayer that it was a lie. He doubted his voice reached those already closed off ears. His pleas of innocence went unheard.

It only got worse from there when he discovered some of his own work in a different gallery, under a different name. He had been devastated when he had learned what had happened. The person he had loved so much had grown hurt and resentful and jealous of his talent…maybe he had always been that way and Keigo had just been blinded by the fact that someone might love him. He had not been loved for so long, since before he could ever even remember that he had latched onto the first person who had shown him any affection. It hurt him to think that all this time, it had all been a lie. S

Soon enough, nto even his most ardent fans would purchase his work. The reviews spiraled down. He had never had anyone hate his work before. It was painful to read what people thought of him now. It hurt his pride and it made him sad. His sadness made his art worse than ever. The more dire things got, the worse his art seemed. His unhappiness was being spread across canvas and people were reacting badly to it. It was getting harder and harder to see his paintings. Finally, he couldn’t sell them at all. He sold them at poverty prices and did whatever he could to keep money together in order to get food and pay the rent on the one thing that he could still call his.

But it was not enough. He was forced to see his supplies. His art things were the first things that left the house. It was followed by every thing that he could think of. Anything that he didn’t absolutely need to live. More and more of the things that he called his ended up in the pawn shop. He had to do that. It was hard, but Keigo had no other choice. He sat for a long time in a nearly empty room after he had just sold his last piece of furniture and thought back to what he had left behind when he had taken up this life. But he knew there was no way to go to his father. Even if the man had perhaps bought a painting, he already knew it was impossible. He knew that man would never help him. They were strangers from the moment he had left that house for art school his freshman year.

He attempted to try and contact old friends from the school. There was never a positive answer. Because he had pushed himself and never really been close to anyone, there was no one he could reach out to. Once more, he was like that little boy of five, crying in his room, only this time, there would be mo nurse maid to pick him up and take him to a place of beauty and refinement. He was on his own. He had no one but himself and he didn’t even have his art to fall back on. He had nothing. He didn’t even have a paintbrush or paints or even a pencil left to his name. Besides, no one was happy with his art anymore. People hated it. It was ugly and is was pointless and it was everything that his father had hated about it.

He put aside his dreams when they shattered. He sealed them up and he didn’t think he’d ever paint or draw again. He couldn’t afford to follow that path if he wanted to continue to live with a roof over his head. But the economy was hard and money was tight everywhere, not just for him. At first there were nothing for him. He had graduated from an art school. There wasn’t much call for an artist in the real world. He had been lucky to have gotten a job at the local all night convenience store, but it left him feeling cold and empty. Keigo could feel his happiness slipping further and further from him, leaving him hollow. It left his as hollow and blank as the room he was renting. But even that, he would lose soon enough.

The place where he worked was forced to let go employees and he was the first to go. He started to fall behind on the rent. At first, the landlord had been lenient, but as he kept falling further in the hole. He tired hard to pay when he could, but it was never enough to cover the full price of the room. He didn’t know what he was going to do. Then the offer came and he knew what he had to do. He knew what he had to do. He still had his pride. He could not take up that offer, no matter how sweet and cushy it seemed to be when it had been placed before him by the son of the landlord.

He had just pulled a notice of late rent off his door from where it had been stapled when the man had stepped behind him. He turned to explain that the rent would come, if the man’s father could just be a little more patient. A hand rested upon his shoulder in a way that Keigo did not find at all welcome. As unwelcome as that appraising look. He knew, despite not eating more than cheap instant noodles and not having a comfortable place to sleep or fancy clothing, he knew he was still a very attractive young man. He didn’t need this man to tell him that. He did not need or ask for that hand to start trailing down from his shoulder and over his arm. He only felt disgusted as the man spoke.

“You owe so many back payments, Atobe-san… I doubt you can come up with even this month’s rent, let alone what you owe my father. And if you can’t, my father will be forced to have to kick you out on the streets.” He knew that. Keigo knew that the landlord had been so patient and kind with him. The landlord had been so understanding of his situation…then again, he was sure that many other tenants in this run down, cheap little building complex had encountered such monetary issues. He wondered if this disgusting man had approached his neighbors in the same way. If so, knowing some of his neighbors…he felt a little sorry for the guy. But not sorry enough. Not when the man continued and Keigo’s stomach churned more.

“We can’t have that, now can we? I would hate to see you living on the streets… Not such a pretty young man like you. But I can help you, if you let me.” He didn’t even have to continue for Keigo to know where it was going. But he could not stop it. He couldn’t stop the words, just like he had been unable to stop all the other things that had ever happened to him in his efforts to do what he loved. Sakaki’s hand trailed back up his arm. It went over his chest, and then his neck to return to his face. There, the older male’s thumb lingered, tracing over his skin. It made him shiver, but not in a good way. Though he missed the intimate times he had with Jirou, Keigo did not actively seek to give his body to anyone. And definitely not someone who’s father owned the apartments. It was not a pleasurable tremor but one of repulsion.

The older man took it the wrong way and his other hand went to the door where the notice had been posted. Keigo sank back, trapped between the man and the door. One hand started to grope around for the knob of the door as the other pushed closer. “It’ll be good for us both, Atobe-san. You’re lonely and you need the money. And I…I have an itch that needs scratching.” That face was coming close to his. Atobe wanted to remind the man about his wife. Not that Atobe knew the man was married. He had only met Sakaki a few times in the past. In fact, the man had only really bothered to show up when Atobe was trying to renegotiate his slow payments with the man’s aging father. He knew that the other man would take over once the elder retired. He felt sorry for those who lived here at this building when that happened. This was proof. This man pinning him against his door, not letting him inside and not letting him leave was willing to cheat on his wife. Cheat on her with a man perhaps half his age…in exchange for free rent.

But what disgusted Keigo most was at that moment, he actually started to consider it. Surely, it couldn’t be all that bad. He wouldn’t have to worry about being kicked out of his apartment. He could maybe even get something more substantial into his stomach other than noodles. He would not longer have to try and work himself half to death to get enough to pay for food and rent. He might even…He might even manage to save enough to get some of his art supplies back. Not that he had anything to draw anymore. And all he would have to do was lay back, spread his legs and pretend he was somewhere else for the next half hour. All he had to do was close his eyes and let this man kiss him. All he had to do was throw away the last of his dignity and become the type of man who had sex for money.

He just had to close his eyes and let it happen. He could feel the soft, warm breath caress his lips. He could feel the coldness of the knob against his fingertips. He knew it would not open. He didn’t have time to unlock it before the other had approached. There was no escape that way. He could not push past the older man either. He knew he wasn’t strong enough. But he also didn’t have to agree to this. So long as he didn’t agree, perhaps it didn’t mean he was teetering on the brink of prostitution in order to remain at this place. He also didn’t want to think about how much of this situation reminded him of Jirou. Jirou who had only slept with Keigo when Jirou was horny and needed relief. It was the same thing now and Keigo wondered if he did agree to this arrangement, how long it would be before Sakaki would decide that he had enough with the affair he wanted and Keigo ended up in the same situation as before the offer had been made.

Keigo’s blue eyes slipped closed and he turned his head to one side, trying to deny what was going to come whether he wanted it to or not. The hand that had been so soft of his face forced it back towards the older man. He could feel the chilly burn of the other’s golden wedding band as it pressed into his chin. He tried to make his mind go elsewhere as lips pressed against his. There was no escaping. Not even his mind allowed him to go away. It forced him to live in that moment, whether he wanted to or not. It forced him to feel ever lingering moment. From the second that their lips connected to the moment that hand squeezed a little too hard on his jar and forced his mouth open. An all too experienced tongue slipped inside and Keigo felt tears stinging at his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry though. He wasn’t. Still, tears still leaked without his permission as that kiss grew hungry and the hand that had been against the door moved down his chest and towards his pants. Sakaki knew just what he was doing. He knew just how to touch a man and Keigo wondered if the man’s wife was just for show.

His breath was shaking as the man pulled away, hand rubbing lightly at the crotch of his pants. He didn’t at all like the way his body had reacted to that touch. He didn’t like how the man looked at him. He cringed when a wet tongue dragged over his neck. “You are delicious, Atobe-san…I can’t wait for you to agree and I can be inside you. But I will wait. Let you think about it.” He winced when the other squeezed him though his pants. “You have a week. I’ll be back then. At that time, consider a yes answer. I’ll make you feel so good and you’ll never have to worry about your rent ever again.”

Atobe slumped to the ground once the older man left, numb. Cold. He stared into the distance for a long time, unable to stand. Unable to move. He felt sick. He left dirty. He felt more used and disgusting as he had when he had been accused of being a forger or his own art. Even more so because he knew despite his wanting to, his body had indeed reacted to the touches. To the kiss. He was pathetic. His head fell back against the door with a hollow thud and wondered what on earth he should do. He could continue to hope his real landlord was forgiving…which he had a feeling wasn’t the case as the notice had included threat of eviction. He could be evicted, but then Keigo would have nowhere at all. As it was, he had a choice between throwing away the rest of his dignity for something that might not last, or the obvious ending and going to the streets anyway. It was not a choice he wanted to have to make. He hoped that for once luck would return to him and he might find a job that would pay him enough that he needed to not look at such an option placed before him.

However, there were still no jobs to be found for the once artist. There was no place that would hire him. He ended up spending a lot of time looking for spare change where he could, hoping that even odd jobs would be enough to scrape some money together to placate his landlord. Still, as the week was drawing close and he had found nothing and the idea of letting someone use him like that looming on the horizon as a real possibility, Keigo felt lost. He didn’t want to return, afraid he would find Sakaki waiting for him to remind him that the time was coming close for him to decide. So instead, he wondered a little, just walking about town. It was that walk that once again brought him back to life as he had never been before. And this time, it was not because of a nurse at a museum or a uncaring father who bought a painting. It was a little child drawing rudimentary flowers with chalk. He was amazed. Not by the art. it was so ugly, but by the child’s face. The little girl looked so happy drawing those ugly little flowers. Unconsciously, he knelt down next to the girl and asked for something he’d stopped doing a long time ago. “Can I draw?” The child pressed the chalk into his hand.

Keigo hadn’t drawn in what felt like an eternity. Though his canvas was concrete and his medium was a little girl’s bright pink sidewalk chalk, it came back to him as easily as breathing. Before he knew it, he had turned the little girl’s ugly flower into the centerpiece of a beautiful work. It made him smile. He hadn’t smiled in forever either. What was more, the little girl had smiled as well. He didn’t understand why it could make her so happy. “It’ll just wash away at the first rain….” Then he got it. He understood. It didn’t matter if the drawings were gone tomorrow. He could always make newer betters ones. Just like his real art. It didn’t matter if his old art had been taken from him. He could make something better. Far more beautiful. He returned the chalk and then returned to the place he’d called home for so long. He returned to find the older male waiting for him.

Keigo pushed past him, shoving his key into the other’s hand. There was nothing for him there anymore. It is was between his heart and his home, Keigo would do as he did so long ago. He would give up the place he had always known to follow his heart. He turned his back and left that building for the last time. He went to live on the streets and in the shelters, returning to that park every day to draw again on his new canvas. He didn’t often pass by this place. When he did, he was reminded once again of how much he had lost. He had heard the saying that people didn’t know what they had until it was gone and only then did they appreciate what they still had left.