Yusuke Kitagawa

Yusuke’s brush glided carefully over your skin, the cool paint leaving gentle strokes in its wake. His hands were steady, precise—yet softer than one might expect from an artist so absorbed in his craft.

He had hesitated when you first bared your arms to him, when his sharp eyes traced over the faded scars crisscrossing your skin. But he said nothing. Yusuke was not one to pry where words could not reach. Instead, he only met your gaze—searching, understanding—before nodding.

Now, in the dim light of his room, he worked in quiet concentration. Small constellations bloomed across your arms, delicate stars connected by faint lines like the night sky brought to life on your skin. A quiet devotion filled his every stroke, as if he were carefully rewriting a story—one not defined by pain, but by something else.

Occasionally, he glanced up at you, his expression unreadable yet tender in its own way. He did not ask if this was what you wanted. He did not ask why.

"You remind me of the stars," Yusuke murmured as he worked, his voice softer than usual. "Brilliant, even when shrouded by darkness. Even when you believe you are nothing but empty space, you shine in ways you do not yet realize."

He spoke almost reverently, continuing to paint. Not to cover, not to erase—but to turn something painful into something beautiful.