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the magnum opus and the muse.

yaguchi yatora x reader

notes: [818 words.] geidai yatora makes me question everything fr ): anyways pls give blue period the love it deserves!! i am literally scraping the floor for crumbs

disclaimers: university au! yaguchi, mentions of smoking & drinking (they discourage it tho), brief mention of underage drinking, reader & yaguchi are probs depressed, friends pining for each other, questioning the future & reminiscing abt the past!!

masterlist.

“How does it feel to hate the things you love?”

A puff of smoke escapes his chapped lips, eyes glistening with a sense of mirth from your question.

Yatora Yaguchi has always been an enigma. From the moment he dyed his hair and pierced his ears, to when his love for art blossomed into an almost self destructive endeavour.

You wonder why he did it. Why would he go through such lengths for it all? For his definition of love.

Even more so now, as he stood in front of you. Yatora looks different now, you thought. Clad in nothing but an all black hoodie and weathered jeans gifted to him during his high-school days, one would think he looks the same as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary.

But you know better. He knows better.

His usually bleached hair is showing his natural roots. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot; Yatora walks with a sense of lethargy instead of self-assured confidence, a feeling you know all too well.

He, too, is hit with the feeling of sullen dreams.

“It fucking sucks. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing.” Yatora brings up a hand to his face, covering the bags that rimmed his eyes. “Pass me another smoke, would you?”

A reluctant grimace finds its way onto your face, hand reaching into your pocket for the box of poison anyways. “You’re killing your lungs that way, y’know.”

“And you’re killing your liver. You’re one to talk.”

Downing the liquor you would once steal from your parent’s cabinets, and were now legal to buy it with your own money, you reminisced.

Back to your youth. Back to when Yatora was encapsulating a blue Shibuya - not living amongst the colour. Back to when you and he didn’t lay in shards of crushed hopes that pierce through the very cores of your beings.

“It would be easier,” you turn to him, watching how the evening glow of Shibuya painted his face with warmth. “If you lived without passion. Like me.”

A beat of silence passes through the air. “No thanks,” he interjects.

“Hey! Why?” You punch his shoulder half-heartedly, “I’m serious. I almost died trying to create a so-called ‘magnum opus’, and now you might too. That’s the last thing I want from you.”

Another cloud of smoke enriches the air around you. And with the smile he gives you, one with the brilliance of a thousand stars, Yatora makes you realise. Within this ghost city, so devoid of life, there was still hope. Hope that came in the form of an ex-delinquent boy, now a Geidai student.

“Because, you said it yourself back in our second year of junior high. That’s the worst way of living. And eventually, you’ll lose sense of yourself, right?” His hand reaches to readjust the scarf he placed around you, delicately. Like he always was, with you. “I believe you still live with passion. You just refuse to believe it.”

Yes, you thought to yourself. Yatora’s right when he says you do live with passion.

But it’s not what he may think.

It’s not in the form of art, not in the tangible, literal sense anyways. Not in the way society thinks of what art is.

It’s in the form of love.

In the form of him.

Yatora is your magnum opus. And you hope to see him bloom into something magnificent.

So, you partly know the answer to your own question. To feel hatred for the things you love? It is to feel hatred towards the man you dedicated yourself wholly to, for he is the one who is slowly leading himself into turmoil.

But, just as before, you will wait. Forever, and evermore. The words lingering on the tip of your tongue will remain unspoken until he, too, sees you in a similar light.

You sigh. That’s enough thinking; you’ve drunk too much again.

A slight tug to your hands snaps you back to reality. “C’mon, daydreamer. My mum has been wanting to see you again. How does spending a night at my house sound?”

The slight desperate tone in his voice makes you realise that maybe, just maybe, Yatora is clinging to the past too.

Little do you know, he views you as something incomprehensible too. Why does he always search for a glimpse of you in the Geidai halls? Attending class would be the last thing you do. It is all unknown to him.

Yatora’s love burns. He is able to paint even through tears; he never feels as if too much is enough. And maybe that’s why he refuses to let you go. He can never get enough of you.

He can never get enough of the person that historians would dictate as his muse.

And maybe that's why he refuses to say the words which cling onto the deep crevices of his heart so very deeply.