"Just for a minute

The silver forked sky

Lit you up like a star

That I will follow."

The lightning strike - Snow Patrol

And the days passed, as all things must pass. And for some strange reason (he really didn't want to know), Akaashi began searching every morning those freckles, that weird look, that head full of hair gel.

But there was no one for him (although there were many people around). And then he looked down, crossing their fingers, just in case the train stopped again, and some unfortunate human being threw it out coffee to his brand shoes and that stupid person were the white haired man that had been on his mind every fucking second of his boring life since he saw him for the first time.

"It cannot be that hard. It is a matter of probabilities. "He repeated. "Sooner or later he will have to appear."

And he keeps searching him that Monday.

And he keeps searching him the next Monday.

And at the fifth Monday, he gave up.

He was angry with himself. "Gosh, that asshole soaked me with coffee. He was crazy, and it seems that now I need to see him again, even so. Bah. What a nobody. "

(Because artists were nobodies. Because only a nobody would spend all his life painting canvas. Because his parents detested the nobodies, the ones who Keiji always loved).

"You are more unbearable than ever." His office mate, Tetsurou Kuroo seemed more stressed than usual, even though the only thing he had been doing all morning was trying to overcome the next level of Candy Crush Saga. Both of them were a very effective tandem in the journal: Akaashi drafted the news, Kuroo brought the pictures. The theory was fair, perfect. The practice? Akaashi drafted the news, Kuroo brought the pictures beyond the deadline, after a big fight against the boss, causing problems and headaches to half of the company.

What was he doing there? No one knew. How had he come to such an important position? It was a mystery. However, Akaashi had established a sincere friendship, and had even begun to care about his disastrous partner.

"This company isn't bearable, either." He could feel Tetsurou's smile behind him. "Touché."

Nevertheless, he had a point. There were too many news to write. So little time, so much to do. And there is something that stresses Akaashi out more than not having time to do his job: having time to do it, but losing it because his office mate.

"By the way, Kuroo. Remember that tomorrow we have the deadline to deliver the last work… you know, the one about that traffic accident ... I hope you have prepared the photos. I don't want to listen another quarrel because of y- "

"Relax, man. You're right: I haven't got any images yet. "

He could feel a knot in his stomach, becoming bigger and bigger. He crossed his arms, noting how his inner demon awakened from a long slumber. "I'm going to commit a fucking crime right here and Kuroo Tetsurou will be the victim."

Someone knocked on the door three times.

"But that doesn't mean I have nothing ..." the other boy smiled as he got up to open it. "They're always telling us to be innovative, right? So I have innovated. I didn't bring a photo, I brought a painting! It turns out that the accident was saw by an artist and he painted a very beautiful thing. Well, not very nice -it stinks, but It's interesting, at least. I hope this shit doesn't cost too much, but hey, he seemed a good boy and wh- MAN! Look, speaking of the devil! Akaashi, I present you our lord and savior. "

And yes. He was his lord and saviour.

In the eyes of Akaashi, it seemed he was looking at Jesus Christ in himself.

He pressed his fingers against the chair, trying to wake up. Because he must be dreaming.

"It cannot be happening this to me."

"It cannot be happening this to me."

An artist always have to know how to recognize the quality of the beauty of each person. No matter if they are men, women, or whatever. And God, that little man he had hit three weeks ago was a quite beautiful subject.

He had searched him on the station.

He keeps searching him that Tuesday.

He keeps searching him another Tuesday.

The next one, he gave up. Because there were other fishes in the sea and Bokuto Koutarou had lots of nets. But every morning, sitting in the same bench, draining his last cigarette, he kept thinking about the individual with the shirt rolled to the elbows. And he kept smiling.

He must be a wealthy businessman. A little spoilt brat who couldn't distinguish a Picasso from a Sorolla. But ugh, did it matter? He will never see him again.

(Although he wanted to see him. Although he wanted to see him every morning of his life).

Living as an art student was hard. He shared an apartment with three other guys from the University (One of them looked like a hobbit out of Middle-earth, he dyed his fringe yellow, like a fucking chicken; another one shoved his whole head off; and the last one was a posh and nobody ever knew what he was doing there, but there he was, with his stupid smile and an absurd egocentrism) and they couldn't even gain money to start eating worthy things for dinner, typical of a human being, and not of a dairy farm.

Because of this, and other issues of life, Koutaro began selling his paintings. He sat at the park every day, he pulled his best smile and began to paint all he saw.

He painted beautiful girls. Dogs, pigeons. He also painted children, drunk people, old men throwing bread to the pond.

Every radiant morning always started with the optimistic painter jumping with joy.

In the evening, however, he crawled to home, depressed and with no new money in his pockets.

So, when the indomitable Kuroo Tetsurou bought one of his illustrations in exchange for a cigarette and some cash (he had not seen that amount of money together in his hands since his roommate Tooru won a bet for suspending his breath more than 1 minute with his head submerged in the toilet), he couldn't help but accept it. He would bring the goddamn painting to the office, and all. "I'm poor, but I'm honest."

What he wasn't expected was to be face to face against the man with the brand new shoes, white as snow, his eyes fixed on him.

And, in spite of the absurd situation, he wished for a moment that those eyes looked at him (even with such horror face) for eternity.