docholligay:

A release that I’m not even sure I ever posted to Patreon. AU of Mystery and Shadow! 

It was a thoughtful gift. Haruka was terribly thoughtful.

And yet, Michiru wanted nothing but to weep. It had been years, but still it felt too raw. She had never exposed the wound to the air, simply shut it away inside of herself and allow it to fester, covered up by the sweet perfumes of their new life, and only rarely did she feel the pain, bone-deep.

And then Haruka, sweet, gentle, effusive Haruka, had opened up everything.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” she had said, her voice suddenly filled with worry and regret, “I just really like playing basketball now and I thought you might…”

“Mama, I picked the colors!” M.A. jumped forward and clapped her hands together, overjoyed.

“Of course you did, my darling, I could tell by the masterful quality of vibrancy, you have such an eye for color.” Michiru smiled warmly at her, and M.A. beamed. It had been a little bit of a lie—they were the sort of loud, expressive colors Haruka liked, and she thought Haruka had selected them, but knowing that M.A. shared that quality with her Papa made it all the more endearing.

“You don’t have to use it, Michiru.” Haruka’s voice was soft now, as if realizing what manner of ghost she had called up.

“Oh nonsense, don’t be so dour, Haruka, it’s my birthday.” She crouched onto the floor and tweaked Kimi’s chin. “Now, I’ve been told by sources one would presume to be honest that there is a genoise sponge in the kitchen the quite literally has my name on it.” She looked over at M.A. and rested a hand on her little shoulder.  “We all know how terribly fond I am of genoise. Your Papa is so thoughtful,” Their eyes met, as Haruka nervously fiddled with her wheelrims, “And does so much to make me happy.”

Haruka smiled at that, and nodded. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t eat it already.”

“My birthday gifts abound.”

___

There had been many occasions in Michiru’s life where she had been required to draw upon some quality of inner strength, but the weight of the wood case was one of the greatest she had ever known. The hinge creaked with a tight newness, the scent of the oak overwhelming her. She ran her hand over them slowly. Fine bristles. Haruka had done her homework. The handles were smooth, sinuous lines until they rounded out into thick balls at the end, like ink pooling on a perfect piece of paper. Michiru touched her scar unconsciously, and looked over to the selection of canvases Haruka  had given her.

Cotton. Pre-primed. No time to dither. She deposited a tiny amount on the palette. Prussian Blue. A classic. She knew it well. Take courage, Michiru. The egg of the brush held in her hand easily, and that was some mercy, that she hadn’t already failed before she’d begun. She dipped the tip into the paint, and though it did not have the force she craved, it certainly picked up paint, and that was something.

In an uncharacteristic move, Michiru Kaioh closed her eyes and extended the brush to the canvas.

She thought if she didn’t look, it wouldn’t be so bad. She thought wrong. For the feel of bristle to canvas was intoxicating, a thousand memories swirling around her of long nights in the studio, giving voice to things she could never truly say but were always inside of her, watching, waiting, and  once more she felt the power of it, and gave a wide stroke, with great expression, as she remembered.

And then she opened her eyes.

A weak straggle of blue crossed the canvas, erractic and unseemly.

Even Michiru was surprised when the line became a watercolor for the emotion in her eyes. A failure. It was simply a thing she could no longer do, just like she could no longer play the violin, and damn Haruka for dangling it in front of her, it was all well and good that she enjoyed athletics again, but the fine arts were different, and required finery, and she bit her lip intensely, forcing herself to gaze upon her own creation, burning its simple weakness into her memory.

“Mama!” She turned to see M.A., in a large old shirt of Haruka’, her hair in two low pigtails, carrying her Barbie bag of brushes. “I want to help paint too!”

“Oh sweetheart, I don’t think I’m going to—“

“Oh Mama!” She gasped. ‘I like your river!”

Michiru turned back to the painting, to the meandering line down the judgmental white. “A river?”

M.A. set down her bag and put her hands on her hips, appraising it.”It’s very loose, like,” she formed her words carefully, “A Mow-nay.”

Michiru crossed her arms and studied it. “Do you think?”

M.A. nodded. “Can I paint too?”

“Oh, of course you can!” She brushed another line on the canvas, but this one seemed  stronger, friendlier somehow.

M.A. looked up from her large piece of paper. “I think you need a mountain.”

Michiru put a hand on her hip and smiled. “A wise artistic critique.” Michiru took it down from the easel. “ Would you like to help me paint it, M.A.?”

M.A. jumped to her feet with her favorite of her pink brushes, happily slapping some dark grey onto the canvas, mixing it with brown and white, and Michiru did not for even one instant notice her temperas mixing with Michiru’s fine charvin acrylics. She set it on the floor, and together they painted, michiru’s smile growing wide as she noticed the way the blues and greys and whites tumbled over each other—it did, in fact, look very nearly like a river. It wasn’t like her old work at all, but something entirely beautiful and new, fresh and alive.

Kimi toddled in, and Michiru called her over. “I think I know what this painting is missing.” She dabbled a bit of green into Kimi’s hands, and she happily smeared it across the canvas, dotting it with violets here and there. It was a lush scene, full of hope, and very soon the tip of Michiru’s nose was dotted with violet as well, and she began to wonder at what exactly they were using the old attic bedroom for, anyhow.

When she gifted the to Haruka, she told Michiru it was the best painting Michiru had ever done.

Michiru was inclined to agree.