Madoka Fukushima was tall and slender, with a figure that was already noticeably more developed than that of the average high school girl.
More importantly, she was pleasant to look at.
Unlike Ryoka Konoe, who was always timid, gloomy, and rather unfashionable, Madoka carried herself with much more confidence.
However—
“Sorry.” Tsukasa Higashino gave her an apologetic look.
“It’s already pretty cramped here with Konoe-san and me.”
Ryoka’s eyes widened at once.
The two of them were sitting in a corner of the studio.
It wasn’t especially spacious, but there was definitely enough room to squeeze in another two or three easels.
So she stared at Tsukasa in astonishment, unable to understand how he could lie so shamelessly with a straight face.
“I see…”
Madoka looked disappointed.
She cast Ryoka a slightly envious glance.
That faintly resentful look nearly gave Ryoka goosebumps.
She opened her mouth instinctively.
“I…”
I can move.
That was what she had intended to say.
But before the words could leave her mouth, she stopped.
Tsukasa was staring directly at her and waving one hand.
The meaning was perfectly clear.
Don’t say anything.
Seeing that, Ryoka could only pout again, lower her head, and remain silent.
After Madoka finally left, Ryoka quietly emphasized, “Fukushima-senpai is the best painter in the art club.”
She scratched her head, then realized that wasn’t quite accurate and hurriedly added, “Before you came, she was the best painter here.
You should probably be able to learn something from her.”
Tsukasa merely chuckled and didn’t bother arguing with her.
He continued applying the ground to his canvas.
Once the first canvas was sufficiently coated, he removed it from the easel and placed it somewhere with a stable room temperature so the ground wouldn’t crack as it dried.
Then he started working on the second canvas.
Every so often, he glanced at Ryoka’s painting and casually offered another piece of advice.
Ryoka’s biggest problem was still hesitation.
One moment, her brushstroke looked one way; the next, she second-guessed herself and changed it completely.
The result was a messy lack of consistency.
“Wait.”
Just as Ryoka was about to put down another stroke, Tsukasa reached out and stopped her.
“Ah…
okay.”
Ryoka obediently froze, looking slightly aggrieved.
Tsukasa had scolded her quite a few times today.
She understood that he wasn’t actually trying to be mean; he was simply trying to teach her what he knew.
But what happened next was completely unexpected.
Instead of criticizing her again, Tsukasa reached over and took hold of her hand.
Ryoka’s mouth fell open.
She nearly knocked over the palette beside her and sent paint splattering all over Tsukasa’s face.
“Don’t move.”
Tsukasa’s voice reached her ears.
Then Ryoka felt him guide her hand.
Little by little, he moved the brush, carefully laying in the color.
And something astonishing happened.
The strokes beneath her brush became smooth and light, almost weightless.
The entire painting gradually seemed to come alive.
It was clearly still her own hand holding the brush. The source of this chapter is g.com.
Yet what appeared on the surface looked nothing like something she was capable of painting.
“Remember this amount of pressure.
Remember how it feels.
Try painting with this same sensation.”
Tsukasa soon released her hand and reminded her what to focus on.
“Ah…
all right.”
Ryoka finally snapped out of her daze.
Recalling the movement he had just guided her through, she turned back to the painting and began working with intense concentration.
Seeing her like that, Tsukasa nodded in satisfaction.
Come to think of it, when he had held Ryoka’s hand just now, her skin had felt remarkably smooth and cool beneath his palm.
If he hugged Ryoka during summer, he might even be able to save money on air-conditioning.
What kind of constitution did this girl have?
Could she actually refrigerate herself?
She really was a walking air conditioner.
If he kept investigating, perhaps he would discover a few more hidden functions.
Tsukasa privately gave Ryoka a new nickname, then turned his attention back to the two canvases he had placed in the corner.
The first layers of ground had already been applied.
Now he had to wait for them to dry, apply another layer, and then sand the surfaces smooth before he could finally begin painting.
Oil painting really did require a ridiculous amount of preparation.
In his previous life, Tsukasa had usually kept several fully prepared, dried canvases ready at all times.
Since he had nothing else to do for the moment, he simply pulled over a small stool, sat behind Ryoka, and watched her paint.
That immediately put Ryoka in an awkward position.
She didn’t dare turn around to look at Tsukasa, but she could clearly feel his gaze resting on her.
And once her attention wandered, mistakes became inevitable.
Her hand moved sideways.
The brush slipped.
A glaring streak suddenly appeared across the painting.
Worse, she was painting a gouache portrait, and the young man in the picture looked somewhat like Tsukasa.
That single misplaced stroke slashed straight across the figure’s neck, making it look as though someone had just murdered Tsukasa.
“Ahhh…”
Ryoka panicked even more.
She hurriedly dipped her brush in water, trying to soften the mark, but that only washed out the colors she had already painted around it.
Tsukasa had drawn a sketch of her before, so this time she had wanted to try painting him.
She hadn’t expected everything to go wrong halfway through.
“Don’t panic.”
Tsukasa’s voice came from behind her.
Ryoka immediately calmed down a little and turned toward him with an almost pleading expression.
She was certain Tsukasa would know how to repair the painting.
“Don’t panic.
Just start over.”
Tsukasa spoke with perfect calm.
“Huh?”
Ryoka stared at him with her mouth hanging open.
“It’s not impossible to fix, but we’d have to deepen the surrounding base colors, and quite a few other areas would need to be changed as well.
If I repair all of that for you, can you still call it your painting?”
Tsukasa didn’t particularly like interfering with another person’s creative work.
Unless Ryoka had developed some genuinely bad habit that needed correcting, he generally preferred not to take over either verbally or physically.
This painting was obviously ruined.
So she might as well start again.
It would also be a good opportunity to cure her habit of painting as though every brushstroke might explode in her face.
She could only let out a pitiful little “Uu…” before removing the ruined board and replacing it with a fresh one.
Naturally, she started painting Tsukasa again from the beginning.
She began laying out the preliminary sketch.
But halfway through, Tsukasa’s voice sounded from behind her once more.
“Wait, Konoe-san.
Something’s wrong with the way you’re drawing this.”
Tsukasa stood up as he pointed it out.
“Eh?
It’s wrong?”
Ryoka looked at the Tsukasa in her sketch.
It seemed pretty good to her.
It might not have been a perfect likeness, but surely it was at least eighty percent accurate.
“Here, give me the pencil.
I’ll do it.”
Tsukasa stood and held out his hand.
“O-Okay…”
Ryoka instinctively extended her pale, delicate hand and passed it to him.
Tsukasa took the pencil without ceremony and immediately began drawing.
He didn’t erase the foundation Ryoka had already laid down.
Instead, he simply continued working over it.
The first line was thin and long, flowing downward to define the contour of the face.
Then came a short, delicate curve, almost like a tiny parenthesis.
A few more light strokes formed the eyebrows.
The hair over the forehead curled slightly, giving the figure an easy, relaxed air that was pleasant to look at.
With only a handful of strokes, the entire face seemed to emerge from the page.
“J-Just…
that few strokes?”
Ryoka stared in disbelief.
She already knew Tsukasa was extremely good at drawing.
But this was almost absurd.
If the sketch he had drawn of her really counted as one of his worst works, then what in the world did his best work look like?
Tsukasa soon stopped drawing and studied the sketch in front of him with satisfaction.
Perhaps because he was drawing himself this time, the quality had turned out reasonably well.
“If you want to learn sketching, you can learn from me.
It’s not difficult.”
Tsukasa set the pencil down and looked at Ryoka.
Not difficult…
The moment she heard those words, Ryoka pressed her lips tightly together.
After a moment, she cautiously glanced left and right.
Only then did she edge closer to Tsukasa, looking almost afraid that someone else might overhear them, and whisper,
“Is sketching really your weakest kind of drawing?”
Tsukasa paused.
He hadn’t expected Ryoka to remember a casual remark he had made two or three days ago.
Seeing the innocent, puzzled look on her face, Tsukasa couldn’t help laughing.
“Guess.”
“Ugh…”
He was teasing her again.
Ryoka’s lips twitched before her head drooped in defeat.
How was she supposed to guess?
Still, something else bothered her even more.
Why had Tsukasa drawn himself so ridiculously handsome?
It didn’t even look real anymore…