Like The Water Loves The Air (Chuuya x Reader)

Chapter Three

--The artist went over to his small sink, the porcelain basin stained with generations of color. Delicately, as if the sink could shatter it to bits and not the other way around, the artist washed the rock clean. He took it from the earth, and then took the earth from it. When it gleamed dangerous in the light, he placed it on his windowsill and sat down. From that point forward, whenever he needed inspiration, he just looked up. His eyes would find the rock, ignoring the green beyond the glass. He focused his mind.

- What happened next? I asked. Did the artist find what he had lost? You shook your head, laughing lightly. I felt my cheeks flush hot under the candle glow of the moon, spurred on by your condescension.

-- No. You stated calmly, as if I was a child. No. He did not find what he was looking for, not until weeks later. It just so happened that when he was making his coffee one morning, he spared the rock a glance. That was when he noticed, it didn't quite shine the way it used to. Running a solitary finger over the surface, he found it to be covered in dust.

The artist placed his steaming mug on the table and picked up the rock. When it had been outside, even covered in dirt, it had still shone. The dust let no such light escape. Resolute in his purpose, he stepped out into the morning chill. The moss pressed against the soles of his bare feet, the smell of decay and wood, of pine, permeated everything. The artist looked up at the rising sun, shielding his eyes.

It was then, and only then, he understood, that he found what he was missing. He placed the rock back on the ground and sat down beside it. The artist took a deep breath. He never struggled in his work again.

--Why? I leaned forward intently, eager to be privy to this secret knowledge. Why? 

--There are more ways than one to be at peace with the earth. You do not have to be buried to allow the worms to gnaw at your rotting skin.

I think about your answer to this day. The wind weathers my edges, fraying them. I close my eyes, I take a deep breath, I look up at the sun until I am blind. I leave rocks where they stand in the grasp of the earth. I hope it holds me just as gently.

A few years after you shared this story with me, our paths crossed again. You had long since given up your brushes and relegated your designs to the cold interior of the office. You seemed surprised when I told you I hadn't.

--You will learn. You will learn.You told me that like it was a blessing, like it was a prayer.

-- I have already learned, I insisted. You are the one who taught me.

--Taught you what?

--The rock and the artist. Your brow furrowed in confusion. The rock and the artist, I said again.

It was vital. It was the pulse that beat behind my breath, the wind whistling through the keyhole of a locked door. You shook your head.

-- I was young. I was foolish.

-- If that was young and foolish, I will remain so forever, I swore. You laughed, the same way you had that night. This time, my cheeks did not betray me. I will.

-- I hope you can, was all you said in response before snapping up your briefcase and tightening your noose, I'll be watching.

I have a promise to keep, you see. I don't look at the rock on the sill, but through the glass to the green. I have a promise to the artist that I wont let the interior distract me from the world. I broke that promise, that is what changed. I let myself slip.

The box of cigarettes, mostly full, sits heavy in the bottom of the trashcan. I think about digging it out, about the lighter tucked in the back of my drawer I swear is just for candles. I think about the wicks like they are the carcasses of moths sent up into flame. I avoid at all costs the thought of change.

Stepping back into this city felt like slipping on an old skin that doesn't fit quite right anymore. It made it so much easier to snap up the lighter, to down the glass, to wish for the return of the fragmentation. I force myself to swallow bites, I force myself to put it back on the table. I buy a new candle, I pretend it will help. It smells like the forest, like the moss and the damp wood of the trees. I pretend that it is, when I close my eyes, the world materializes around me.

The house I grew up in burns from the inside out with someone else's memories. I pass it on the street every day when on my walk to work. I do not call the fire department, I crave to see it reduced to ash. I wonder, is it the moth, or am I? Is it the rock, or am I? Do I gather dust on the windowsill? Have I grown too old for myself? 

I dream of planes crashing, of the world falling still. I watch the vines crawl through the remnants of windows, of eyes, of cracked skull. Somehow, in the midst of the carnage, there is still the dust. The lighter falls heavy against the hard wood.

Is it the moth, or am I? Is it the rock, or am I?