Chapter Text
“I think we should see other people.”
The girl he’s been dating for almost the whole first term of university delivers the words softly, like she’s afraid of his anger. Still, the words hit Atsushi like a slap. Once again, he’s not good enough. “Can I ask why?” he murmurs.
Her eyes rise from the omelet rice Atsushi bought her for lunch. She hums, takes a bite, sips her matcha latte. He’s about to rescind his question when she says, “I just don’t feel like you want me. You know, physically.”
Atsushi shifts his eyes. He could try to explain, but he knows by now once someone gets this thought in their head, there’s no point in fighting it. “I see.”
“You aren’t mad.”
“I’m used to this.”
She blinks.
“You’re not the first person to break up with me for that.” He puts on a bright smile. “I’ll always appreciate the time we spent together, and I hope you find someone who can do that for you.” When he hears a laugh, he peers across the table at her.
“You’re a really sweet guy, you know?” She folds her hands in your lap. “Easy to go out with, easy to break up with… I was kind of scared you’d be mad.”
Atsushi, with another smile, takes a bite of his parfait. “I mean, I’m a little disappointed, but it’s nothing new. Let’s just say anger is something I’m especially mindful of expressing in ways that don’t hurt other people.”
She lowers her head.
“Is there someone else?” he asks
“Huh?” She shakes her head. “No way. I wouldn’t do that to anyone, especially not a guy like you.”
“Well.” Atsushi reaches for his iced oolong. “I meant what I said. I really hope one day, you find someone who makes you happy.”
She takes a few more bites of her lunch. “Can I ask something… personal?”
Atsushi glances up at her and continues to chew.
“Why do I get the idea you’re really not physically attracted to me?”
After swallowing, Atsushi lowers his eyes. “Ah…”
“I mean, you don’t have to tell me…”
“No, it’s… okay. It’s just hard to articulate.” He swirls his spoon in his parfait, circling once, twice, three times. With a sigh, he murmurs, “It’s… not just you. It’s… everyone.”
“Everyone?” she asks, tipping her head. Her earrings catch the light. “Ah. I get it. You’re gay.”
“I’m not,” Atsushi insists.
“I thought you dated guys before.”
“I have,” Atsushi says. “I don’t feel it for them, either.”
She stares at him.
“I know it’s weird. You don’t have to say anything.”
“Nakajima,” she calls. “Can you explain it to me? I really want to understand.”
She’s the first person to ask him to explain it in his four-year history of short relationships that, in the best cases, end in getting dumped. Fidgeting, he murmurs, “I think… I’m the kind of person who can be emotionally attracted to someone regardless of gender. But physical attraction just isn’t something I experience.” He rubs the back of his uneven hair. “I don’t even know if that’s possible, but it’s what I think.”
“Silly,” she says, patting the hand he has on the table. “Why didn’t you just say that up front?”
Atsushi passes her a stare. “The reactions aren’t exactly great. Best case, people decide they’re not interested. Worst case, they threaten to change my mind.” He squeezes his arm and sends his glare at his food. “I’m not mad at you. It’s just really unpleasant to think about.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
He lifts his eyes.
“Now I feel really shitty breaking up with you.”
“I didn’t tell you that to guilt you into staying, honest.”
“I know.” She pats his hand again. “I think it’s even shittier that someone would say that to a nice guy like you.”
“I’m sure I’m not always nice,” Atsushi insists, waving his hands. “I try to be a good person. Sometimes, I succeed. Sometimes, I don’t.”
“You’re too humble, Nakajima.” She sips her drink with a faint smile that tells Atsushi it’s over, truly over. Even if this has happened before, the end of something still stings. “Ah,” she says after he pays. “I was supposed to be your model for figure drawing next semester.”
“You really don’t have to,” he insists. “I’ll make other arrangements.”
“Well, if you say so. I hope we can still be friends, though.”
“Yeah,” Atsushi answers, but he knows she’s just saying it out of politeness. They part ways on good enough terms, and Atsushi goes back to his shabby studio apartment, clutching a pillow and replaying bits of that conversation in his head, loathing himself for not being enough, loathing what he said, how he just accepted it all. But, he reminds himself, it’s not right to hold on when the other person has made it clear they’re not interested.
Feeling a little better, he sits up and switches from staring at the ceiling to staring at the floor. The only thing he feels like doing is nothing. The new term doesn’t start for another few days. Ah. I know. He opens his laptop and navigates to Instagram. He hasn’t checked his feed in a couple of weeks because of exams, but now that he has decompressed, he logs in and scrolls through the handful of art accounts he follows.
Ah. Atsushi smiles, hovering his mouse over the video. He updated.
He clicks, and his headphones fill with electric guitar, bass, and drums. The man in frame, username Diablo, circles the pole, muscles flexing beneath pale skin, a focus in his face. Atsushi watches as he pirouettes, launches himself into a spin, suspending himself with the back of one knee and one hand. Eventually, he leans back into the spin so only his legs are supporting him, arms fanned out. Despite the heavy metal in the background, he looks… free. Weightless. His expression is soft but focused. As always, though, Diablo never smiles, at least not before the clip ends.
Atsushi sees just as much beauty in the dancer as he does the dance, so much that he crawls across the room to grab his personal sketchbook, a little A5 spiral-bound book he has gradually been filling, and a mechanical pencil. His first-term teacher’s voice echoes in his mind. “Photos make for adequate references, but real artists use real-life references.” He disagrees with that philosophy, but as he replays the video and pauses it while Diablo hovers, gripping the pole with only his legs, arms spread, he tells himself, I would kill for the chance to draw him in person. He sketches fast and loose, working to capture shapes and gestures more than the expression. Then, he makes a slower pass, using feathery lines to capture the white-tipped hair, the thin eyebrows. His eyes move between the paper and the screen, and when he’s satisfied with the lines, he starts to shade. His objective, rather than realism, is movement, shape, value, perspective. His personal sketchbook is for practice, and he views sketchbooks in general for imperfect finished enough pieces.
Alright, he thinks, holding the paper up. He can see he made Diablo’s forearm too long, his hair a little too fluffy… But it’s still beautiful. He smiles. It’s beauty I was able to make from something beautiful I saw. And the movement… I almost expect the sketch to start spinning. He thumbs to the first page, which is covered in two or three stiff sketches and dated nearly two years ago.
The sketchbook and his dreams were all that made it out of the orphanage, and he can’t even say both came out intact. Still, even in a few short months, I’ve made it a long way. He thumbs through the sketches, smiling as they evolve from something stiffer to something more graceful. Out of nowhere, there’s a spike in quality because there are several missing pages. A small sacrifice to save the rest, but even now, he misses those sketches with an ache he imagines people tend to feel towards estranged or late family members. His hazy recollection of them… he can’t even remember what they were of anymore, except one page was definitely flowers. He was trying to impress the boy he liked, the same one who promised to prove him wrong.
The minute that boy reached for his arm, Atsushi broke his nose.
All things considered, this wasn’t a bad way to break up, he thinks, smiling at a blank page.
He decides to draw a few more, taking a break for dinner. Chazuke, of course. While eating, he alternates between scrolling through Diablo’s account and taking bites. As beautiful as Diablo is when he’s dancing around the pole or doing floorwork, Atsushi knows he doesn’t feel attracted to him. I guess if I can’t be attracted to someone like him, someone I admire a lot for how beautiful they are, I really can’t be attracted to anyone.
An oddly bold temptation seizes him. Atsushi shoves the thought away. “No way.” He speaks the words out loud to make them real. “You can’t just DM the guy. I mean, yeah, you’ve followed his account since he started a couple of years ago, but you made him the subject of your art without asking. Even if he’s the reason it is what it is now, it would be weird.” He hugs his sketchbook and studies Diablo’s face. “I wonder what kind of person he is, though.” He flops down on his floor and starts to concoct a personality and history for Diablo. “He grew up in a household that loved him with a younger sibling. He did okay in school. But he hated math.” Atsushi snickers as he imagines Diablo in a middle school uniform hunched over a desk frowning at quadratic equations. “He wasn’t really fond of kanji drills, either, but he was good at remembering them. HIs parents weren’t super conservative, so when he wanted to start pole dancing, they didn’t argue with him. They were rich, so they got him private lessons.” Atsushi sighs. “People sexualized him. Even as a child.” Rolling his eyes, he grumbles, “Stupid. Why does it always have to be about that?”
He tries to divert his mind to happier matters.
“His teacher hated the fact that he danced to metal. So he quit lessons, had a pole installed in his bedroom, and started his social media account right after graduating high school. Hmm… why…” Atsushi closes his eyes and smiles. “Of course, because he wanted to prove his teacher wrong. And now he’s an influencer.” He sits up, laughing to himself, wondering if it’s creepy to make up stories about his favorite online celebrity. It can’t be worse than some of the comments on his videos. I wonder how he takes those, Atsushi thinks. Diablo never responds to people who say crude things about his body. His performances tell me he can be intense, but he never shows that side of himself publicly. I wonder… what he thinks of people who say those things.
Several times, Atsushi has tried to comment on Diablo’s content, but he always stops short of actually posting it. Maybe Diablo wants those comments. Part of him wonders if maybe he should send a direct message.
What would I even say to him? He chews on that question while he strips and showers, working shampoo into his hair. How can I even start to thank him for what he does?
Atsushi doubts other people would see Diablo that way, but the truth is, his art wouldn’t be nearly as good as it was if he didn’t feel inspired to draw whenever he watched Diablo’s content. He still remembers finding it completely by accident one night while browsing Instagram and panicking the whole time while worrying about being caught.
But he couldn't look away.
I’ll bet he’s really reserved, Atsushi sits down on the stool to scrub his body. But with the way he performs, I’ll bet he can be loud if he wants to, maybe about stuff he’s really passionate about, like pole dancing. He grabs the showerhead to rinse his skin, washes the stool, and turns off the water. I’ll bet… his smile is really nice. Atsushi starts to dry himself off. But he seems so serious… maybe he only smiles when he’s truly comfortable with someone. Or maybe… he doesn’t have any reasons to smile. He rubs his face with the towel before drying his shoulders. I guess… if I had to say one thing to him…
After putting pajamas on, Atsushi sits down at the keyboard, opens a DM, and stares at the cursor. I hope it’s not strange to DM you out of the blue, but I’ve been following your account for a couple of years now. I want to thank you for continuing to create content. It was a real inspiration to me in times when I didn’t have much else. I was brave enough to pursue my passions because of you. That seems good enough. He waits until the morning to send it and adds, I don’t expect you to respond. I just wanted to tell you that your work is important to me.
In the end, it’s just a message. It’s not like anything will come of sending it. No matter how stupid it may sound, it’s likely neither Diablo nor he will remember it.