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Summary
Yotasuke notes that the dying blood of the evening sunset dapples the atelier in place of the harsh fluorescent lights. Yotasuke figures that the artist inside must’ve ripped the curtains wide open.
And the windows too, he monologues gruffly, as a gust of evening wind ruffles his hair.
Ready to reprimand the artist for working in poor lighting, he boldly steps into the classroom, only for his carefully constructed words to wilt on the edge of his tongue.
Yatora is crying in the room, judging from the way his silhouetted shoulders tremble.
“Yatora?”
Alternatively: Gay people kiss poetically
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*finished reading*
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