the relation of art and pain | jotakak

iv

Kakyoin is well aware that Professor Rohan Kishibe took a liking to him quite a while ago. It gives him a confidence boost as he waits for the rest of the class to file out and for Kishibe to saunter his way over. He has a free hour, and so they had decided Kishibe would look his project over and give him a verdict after class. Both of them know that what he says now will likely be his final assessment.

He stands to the side as Kishibe scrutinizes the canvases, taking a minute to look at them himself. It is rare for him to feel any sense of pride over his work, for he often does not see the reason to. Art is a complex subject for Kakyoin, although not in the way it is for most people. But these are good, perhaps even great, works of art — he realizes that next year he may not think so, but he completely feels he has performed to the best of his ability this time.

"I don't know how I feel," Kishibe finally says. "You've conflicted me."

Kakyoin raises an eyebrow. "Professor?"

"There's a problem here, Noriaki, and I want you to tell me what it is," Kishibe says, splaying his fingers out and waving his hand towards the canvases. 

He is quiet, squinting his eyes towards his own work. "I'm sorry, I don't—"

"Exactly," he interrupts. "You don't know. Noriaki, I don't feel anything when I look at these. I see amazing technique — but I don't see any emotion. It ruins a piece when you can't feel something because of it, wouldn't you agree?"

Kakyoin is at a loss for words. Despite the rare compliment, his confidence has plummeted so far he is not sure he can ever regain it. Was he not Kishibe's favorite? He had begun to look up to this man, in a way; and now he tells him his work is not adequate.

"Yes, sir," he says, once he is sure he won't stutter.

"I assume there was a meaning a behind your work, wasn't there?" Kishibe asks.

"Yes."

"But you didn't have much of a connection to it, did you?"

"No."

"That's the issue," Kishibe says. He stands there for a moment, silent, studying one portrait in particular. Posed like a classical painting that Jotaro likes, with him and his mother, it was one of Kakyoin's favorites before he decided that he hates them all. "I like you, Noriaki. And I want you to succeed, so I'm going to give you a passing grade on this. I'll make you a deal, too."

"A deal?"

"If you can make me a better project by the end of this course, then I'll give you an A on both," he explains. "You have potential. I wouldn't waste it if I were you."

"Yes, sir," Kakyoin nods, swallowing down the mixture of anger and betrayal raising in his throat. He wants nothing more than to be alone, but he forces himself to walk calmly back to his dorm.

-

The thought of calling his next professor to say that he is sick passes his mind, but Kakyoin can only manage to slump into the chair at their breakfast table. His eyes start to burn with tears.

His roommate, Jean, just left. He isn't sure whether he is happy about being alone for the next few hours, but as he buries his face in his hands, he is glad that no one else is here to see him.

Somewhere in his mind, he remembers that he hasn't taken his medication for the past few weeks. He counters the thought by telling himself this is only one bad day.

As long as the voices do not come, it will have been only one bad day.

Once it's over, he will be fine again; he has been fine without his medication for weeks, if one ignores the sleep that has evaded him and the mood swings he has grown prone to. And the voices. The voices are the worst part, the constant static that he cannot turn off. Yet it feels so much better living with these things than being without them. At least, that's what he tells himself as he pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them with a vice like grip.