there's no sign of the morning coming—

[immortalized]

𝔇𝔬 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔡𝔢𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔰, 𝔡𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔯 𝔩𝔢𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔤𝔬?
𝔚𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔡, 𝔡𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔥𝔦𝔡𝔢, 𝔡𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢
ℑ𝔰 𝔦𝔱 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴
𝔜𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔧𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔞 𝔭𝔦𝔠𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢, 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔪𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔦𝔪𝔢
𝔚𝔢'𝔯𝔢 𝔞 𝔩𝔦𝔢, 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℑ
𝔚𝔢'𝔯𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔞 𝔯𝔥𝔶𝔪𝔢

Comments

[immortalized]

Ambrose heard someone draw closer to him, ears keen on the way the air sighs around movement, the foot falls that draw a calm rhythm toward him, and the heartbeat that thrums louder in the closing proximity. He always plays the fool when approached, never looking toward the other too early — it unsettles them, and understandably so. He doesn't like to interrupt a person's plans for their introduction by catching them off guard.

He finds this opening dialogue interesting, so Ambrose doesn't hide the receptiveness from his face when he turns to regard what stranger has chosen him to greet; Ambrose finds a fascinating-looking young man beside him, artfully dressed and atypically curated in his choices in look. Ambrose has been in many major cities to meet musicians and fashion designers, script writers and painters — they don't all dress so expressively, but people who do are always more outwardly passionate. It's been a while since Ambrose has met someone like that.

"How can I not?" Ambrose speaks with the same reverent volume he might reserve for a cathedral in the night; his voice glides on a smooth cello-wood tone, but his energy expended tells that he is pitching his voice gently, lightly. The sense of relaxation auraed around him feels nearly languid. "It means the world to me, to be shown something made with utmost intention, something that that artist alone could only see until they brought their vision to reality. I enjoy little more in this world."

He sees the drawing pad, the pencil still in hand as he clasps the large sketching collection in the man's hands. The man may stand out in the open with it, but Ambrose knows better than to pry upon one's works in progress. An artist he all but outwardly proves to be — between his strange hair, sketching pad, and presence at an art exhibit tonight. Ambrose must only rely on Occam's razor.

With the assumption made, the vampire glances at the space around them. "Do you have work on display here tonight?"

[mangakant]

Finished works line the walls, ceilings, and floors around them. Rohan might be the only one carrying an unfinished work right now - an entire sketchpad's worth - and he would imagine he's definitely the only one capable of using it as a tool for more material. For a moment, he wonders what this woman would tell him if she were to look at the works in his hand and open herself to Heaven's Door...

But there's far too many people around right now for peeling open her face to leaf through the basics. Even if he thinks it would be useful, even if his need to seek out the unusual and discover its mundane facts means the idea is seeded instantly.

This woman speaks in a way that makes Rohan immediately think of him as a man instead, and perhaps he shouldn't - he should ask, or maybe he should just take a peak, carefully, and find out himself right now? - but the soothing baritone can't be mistaken for anything else. It's a shock to hear, and Rohan's surprise shows on his face. It's a fascinated stare, eyes widen and lips parting slightly. His earrings, left swinging when he turns his head to lean in closer, jangle very softly against his jaw.

She also speaks in a way that makes Rohan think of book characters. There's a depth of intention to it that most people rush through and miss. He is, in a simple and immediate sense, enraptured.

He shifts his pad further from his chest, but also turns more to face the woman, as he hastily makes a few notes to himself - in writing, this time - about what he's hearing. But-- he doesn't entirely ignore the question, either. "Yes." Simple, matter-of-fact. He looks to the display of his own work right beside them, the one that the woman was examining just moments ago. "These are mine."

Another thought, as he watches her instead of his own artwork - her accent is light but pretty, but it's more than noticeable enough. Who travels so far to visit an art gallery display in a small suburban town...? Gears, never entirely turned off, begin turning.

--Hmm. He was going to leave it there, but after a moment when he re-examines the plaque with his name and the art's description on it, Rohan adds, "In case you can't pronounce the kanji, my name is Rohan Kishibe. And you are?"

[immortalized]

Ambrose is an unfinished work, himself — not in his appearance tonight, no, nothing about how meticulously he arranged his look seems raw and undone. As an entire concept, however, his whole being as it is now is a rough sketch deepened with charcoal shadows and punctuated with particular highlights.

His manner of dress tonight is one of those particularities; it's a new modern age to him, and ten years alone has seen a staggering social advancement. To him, matters of discrimination mean so much less to him than they used to, knowing mortality doesn't have him limited, and being able to see the fresco of life as a much larger, more vividly-detailed design before him. He'a gained success and richness by being what he is and doing what his heart still yearns for, despite its chronic and usual stillness.

But none of that wealth seems to exude from Ambrose himself, no beacon to make him glow with opulence from anywhere deeper than the makeup on his face or the gilded threading in his garment. Part of him, a significant one, is happy to materialize into this image, and it's clearly done with love and feeling... But there is something undeniably somber in him, still.

Even as the young man admits these designed serial covers are of his own making — Ambrose still lights with surprise, the clear sense of a connection being made, and he looks at the images of Pink Dark Boy again. The style one portrays in says something about the artist, Ambrose has always believed. He wonders if he can divine something out of him from the choice in proportions or the stylized display, not knowing he is being considered by the artist to be divined from, himself.

Matter-of-fact, isn't he? Ambrose looks to him again, and his smile nearly looks like it could go wry at the bluntness of the introduction. "Are you accustomed to people being incapable for reading you for who you truly are?" A commentary on the name, on the conundrum of kanji reading...and a ham-fisted ominous meaning to double over it.

"Ambrose Sinclair." He's due to give his own identity over, and his chin tilts downward in a polite bow of his head, which comes more like a ponderous tilt. "I was just admiring how this character occurred to me as particularly fascinating... I hoped his mindful master might appear as equally interesting, were I to meet him.

"Instead, I think I underestimated him." Rohan appears more vividly than his already-exciting artwork, which has been displayed with lengths of accolades for his work, which suggests comes with more than just images, but also story writing, from what Ambrose can gather. When he looks at Rohan again, his smile is kinder.

Maybe a little warmer.

[mangakant]

This guy - woman - he/she moves so slowly, and with such a casual purpose to it all. Rohan is transfixed by whoever this is. He has to know more - why is this person so calmly happy? What do other emotions look like in this face? What does she look like under the makeup?

...Which pronoun should he be using? At the very least, he gets a name very quickly. Ambrose Sinclair - is that an English name, or an American one? Or, what's the others, there's so many countries that speak English...

But before the name, there's an unexpected read of himself. It's a doublespeak that Rohan certainly wasn't expecting - Japanese name kanji are so varied, he's run into the very rare occasion that even his given name has thrown a person for a loop. Not that he wasn't making a point of it, but to hear that point redirected and made into that kind of suggestion...

Rohan's surprise pinches with offense, just a little, at the idea that he's some sort of outsider. Even if, if he's entirely honest, he is. It's not as if being an effeminate male who's great at drawing made him especially popular growing up.

(Being an instinctive dick to everyone he talks to didn't help, either.)

"You speak like the character in a story. Are you sure you need to inspect others' lives so much?" Said the biggest hypocrite in the room, apparently. Rohan's snarl of a response doesn't at all mean that he leaves the conversation, however - he's anchored in place by the praise and, more importantly, by the viewpoint of the artwork...and himself.

Ambrose smiles at him, and it reminds him of Koichi-kun just a little - warm, knowing. Like it sees something in other people they're not always aware of in themselves. Rohan swallows. "Forgive me, but I'm..." Falling back onto politeness to seem trustworthy is both instinct, and choice. He wants to know this next part, and he wants to know it not just for manga-related reasons. "Before we converse much further, I simply need to know if you're a man or a woman. I'd rather my thoughts about you reflected your reality." It's the closest a cis dude in the late 90s is probably going to get to 'I want to respect you, so please tell me your pronouns', and for all its clunky weight, it's politely sincere.

His mouth twitches, just a little. "And then afterwards, I promise I will happily answer any questions you have about the art style of Pink Dark Boy."

[immortalized]

Rohan seems unbalanced by the remark — which means it landed. Had it been off the mark, Ambrose's words would have whizzed past to leave his newest acquaintance unscathed. He meant no harm, and Ambrose hopes he carries that truth in the way he continues to regard him, still...he sees the attentive tension in his face. His words in return are not particularly cutting, but rather like the chill carried by the blade.

But Ambrose can't feel an ache in them when they amuse him so, bending his lips almost inappropriately back, a chuckle swelling under his sternum. "Perhaps that is due to how often I study characters within their stories." Both to explain how he talks, and why he concerns himself with other people's lives. He could say something horribly cliché, 'everyone is a character in a story, in their own and in someone else's,' and he wouldn't be incorrect...but it would be so gauche to say. At least, this choice of reply gives Rohan something about himself, after he plucked something away without permission, a blossom from a stem. He feels as though he should apologize...

He could, had he the time, but Rohan stops their entire trajectory in their conversation to request a clarification. Lately, people have stopped asking — perhaps there is a building desensitization to the idea now, be it from the culture of the sexuality-queer, or from an expectation of performance artists such as himself, Ambrose cannot really say. When he presents himself in this way, he still sees the questions in people's eyes, intrigue mixing with wonder, and he knows the experience is for them if they keep it to themselves.

Thus, he keeps to his own self, focused on what it means to him to present himself this way.

Rohan asks him the most burning question one ever has for him when they see Ambrose this way. It isn't exactly banal, because nothing about this is excruciatingly boring. The difference here is the way the weight in Rohan's inquiry is balanced — mindful, respectful. 'I'd rather my thoughts about you reflected your reality.'

Ambrose might say that he can't remember the last time someone spoke to him like this, except...he can, and he does, and it stills him, statuesque, for a small collection of heartbeats. For a moment, he's standing in Egypt, caught between the lapsed heat being slowly drank away by the vivid chill of it's sapphire evening, and in his ears murmurs a voice from the dead.

He smiles, breaking the ache in his ribs, focusing his eyes on the artist before him. "Among the many things that I am, a man is one of them." It would feel silly to establish, if he wasn't wearing a dress and a full face of makeup. Usually, people don't understand this answer, often questioning it, hoping for a more bizarre answer than what it is that his image seems to combat against. 'If you're a man, then, why do you dress like a woman?' Maybe Rohan doesn't intend to inquire, which inspires Ambrose all the more to say it in his own terms: "I don't let it define me — I define the word for myself.

"Please, don't think that dressing like this is...the rule. Frequent, sometimes, but this is a...demonstration." Living art. Done only when inspired.

The next part that usually comes across is... "If it's unsettling, then I—" Ambrose is caught by himself, and he...laughs, shortly, an airy little sound through the smile split against his teeth.

"I can't apologize." And yet, he seems almost apologetic about that fact. He's been given too much acceptance, too much love for what he has given to other people, and given himself so much meaning for it that he can't insult it all by apologizing for this...

And looking at Rohan, he doesn't think he would have to atone for self-expression here.

[mangakant]

"Better to study people in real life, and learn how to mimic them in your own style in your stories..." But Rohan doesn't quite get the impression he's lecturing a novice to the arts, here. But what does this man do, if he doesn't draw? Perhaps it's simply intuition that could be wrong, but Rohan doesn't think a person who draws would be inspecting others' drawings with such casual and non-competitive fascination--

Oh. Oh. The way he's speaking. The way he acts like a character. His particular way of-- "You. You must be an actor." It's a momentary guess, and it surprises Rohan himself with it - usually Heaven's Door is such a convenient ability because it helps him, with something he's not quite so adept at himself. Curiosity doesn't grant him an immense ability to read people, and certainly not to get along with them well enough to gain access to their personal stories voluntarily. But this comes intuitively with the man's gait and conversation.

...Is he right? He must be...

But Ambrose answers the question, the one that his foreign name didn't answer on its own. Rohan listens raptly, because for all his selfish reasons for asking, he didn't ask to throw away this answer. It will be remembered, carefully guarded, used if it suits a story. And in the meantime, a surprise happens--

Rohan...likes it. On a personal level, he finds it lifts something inside of himself, a part he's always ignored because it wasn't part and parcel of his main focus in life. Decorating his own body is a passion, but it's not what he was put on earth to do. He does it entirely for himself, and so it's perhaps been easy - especially as he ages and lives alone, without even an editor to see in person much anymore - to just ignore the little subtle ways it's not understood by the vast majority of people.

That and he's barely past a teenager's tenacity to spit and fight against what they're told. He hasn't had too much time for the tiny hatreds to sink in and grow sores, yet. Rohan stares, and stares, and the sketchpad in his arms droops a little bit with his lapsing attention for it and instead his great focus on the man - because it is a man, like himself - in front of him. This is a connection he had no idea he was missing in his life. His mouth feels dry and he swallows reflexively.

And then he snaps his mouth shut and straightens his back, pulling his drawing pad closer to his chest once again. "You shouldn't ever apologize." He says, and he meant it to sound dismissive but dammit, dammit he sounds sincere as hell. There's an impassioned edge to his voice that's not unfamiliar in general, but it is for this topic. It's not something Rohan thinks of much - being single, it's almost easy to forget. But right now he feels undeniably...protective. And protected in turn, perhaps?

Is this what feeling like part of a group is like...?

"I suppose you really must be an actor, then. Even if this is one of your real faces." He clears his throat, looks down at his sketchpad a moment. "Well. It seems we're both men, then." Rohan never wants to share things about himself-- well. Not things that aren't relevant to his calling, to what he does. He feels abruptly self-conscious that he wants to ask the other, obvious follow-up question, find out if the other man's also--

He won't ask. It's not important, and he's not going to stoop to something so low and desperate. Sexuality's hardly a reason to start a friendship, anyway. His expression grows into nearly a pout as he wages a short but embarrassed, impassioned internal battle. "Did you have any questions?" Asked stiffly.

[immortalized]

Out of somewhere unknown, some aether of intuition, Rohan loosens a striking arrow right at Ambrose and punctures the heart of truth — 'you must be an actor.' Standing here, Ambrose looks all at once genuinely shocked.What did he demonstrate that gave his new acquaintance such a cutting, adamant realization? It's nearly a worry; people have a particular idea about actors, speaking much beyond the pre-Victorian aged connection that likened them to sex workers. Liars, deceivers...even in the kindest of intentions, most assume they, and Ambrose, must be good at faking everything they display for others to observe. It's a natural connection, albeit cruel on the molecular level. What drew Rohan to this precisely-accurate conclusion?

Ambrose's expression wants to sink down with a thoughtful sharpness...but he isn't given much time. Rohan flares with a confident stance in return for his almost-rude admission that he carry himself apologetically, and more pleasantly, made in Ambrose's justification. It's...protective, encouraging, with all of the qualities and all of the kindness of a cliff face. Fortunately, Ambrose is not losing his balance at the edge. They have only just met, yet something has been woven between them, some sort of cable linking them instantaneously, threaded with each other's intrigue for one another...and inherent understanding, unexpected as it is.

Even with the grand gesture made to him by a near stranger, Rohan folds back inward as soon as it's given out, like some feral animal retreating back into where he knows it is safe away from possible threats. The sketch book, large as a canvas and pulled halfway open from what Ambrose can gather, suggesting there must be a myriad of raw images and likenesses layered within, is pulled tighter to Rohan's chest. What lies on the pages that he feels momentarily secretive about?

Did he have any questions? Ambrose thinks he could list a hundred, if that sketch pad were in his own hands, pages filled with every fascinated thought Ambrose can currently feel dragging across his ankles about the young, living man.

"I suppose I could ask about the person in real life, as you suggested...

"But I think I want to hear you speak about your creation for a moment. What is the genre of this story you write?" An on-going, constantly developed story — Ambrose can't help but exude respect for this newly-met artist. That sort of work isn't to be taken lightly, especially if the references to awards and notoriety is worth taking into account.

[mangakant]

Ambrose, for all his earlier nosiness, doesn't latch on and rattle Rohan like a dog at a bone. Even prompted with a question, it's hungry but open-ended; not entirely unlike how Rohan asks. Everything. Give me everything, from your perspective.

He could be offended. Perhaps he would be, if there had been no other connection. But then again, perhaps not — it says so much about this man that he's curious, and it spurs on the curiosity in Rohan. The urge to talk about his passion bubbles up and then, struck by the reminder that they seem to be on the same wavelength, he straightens up out of pride instead of defensiveness. "Psychological thriller. It has elements of other genres in it, of course — you need that to flesh out any story. Horror, suspense...but also realistic characters. You can't have realism if you only show one type of emotion, one type of plot."

Rohan unwinds, just a little. Enough to take a step forward, closer to Ambrose...and closer to the wall of his own artwork. He looks at one particular colored spread of Pink Dark Boy leaping desperately over a ledge. "I'm inspired most to write about what moves me in real life, and tense moments seem to stick around the longest...and be the most worth sharing in fiction."

Which is not to say that Rohan Kishibe's life was particularly thrilling, suspenseful, or horrifying...before he got shot with an arrow, anyway. Maybe it's a little ironic that his life started to reflect his fictitious world even more closely than he could have imagined.

[immortalized]

Psychological thriller. Ambrose's eyebrows lift with intrigue; such a genre is not an easy instrument to wield. One must be meticulous and clever, able to line up a mystery without fully obscuring it and ultimately remove it from its purpose. One also must know where to lance the audience exactly where their deepest nerves lie, they must be able to choose what to portray, how to frame it, and make their story compelling. It's a vague and intense direction to write into, possible to make confusing and therefore, uninteresting.

Rohan must have mastered the genre; there are small anecdotal placards remarking on the success and the focus of the serial story, how long it has been running for, how many issues it has been printed in. When Ambrose looks back at this artist, listening with absolute focus, his smile is...proud. The flourishing of celebration and acknowledgement is a pleasure to see for such a young man, seeing the combination of creativity and knife-edged precision. Rohan reminds him of the men who penned the scripts Ambrose was given to memorize, and the men that barked their adamant directions for they who stood elevated on the stage framed in blood-red velvet curtains. He has all the makings of a success. Rohan is as intelligent as he is passionate — it's glaringly obvious as a fact — and seems quite cerebral in the choice of his iconic artistry here.

"Perhaps all terror really happens in the mind — perception is the key. Threats, in all truth, are relative." What threatens one person may not be considered dangerous to the next. Even common, over-arching dangers are not thrilling to all living beings as an exclusive rule. It makes Ambrose curious to know what he portrays as thrilling; he imagines the imagery must be fantastic.

"Is this Pink Dark Boy inspired by someone in particular? Or is he only a vehicle for the audience to navigate your thrilling stories within?" Striding now towards something personal, and how can Ambrose not, when Rohan insists again that his works are rooted in a foundation of realism? Where, from him, is this character born from?

[mangakant]

"Yes. Yes, exactly. It happens in the mind. And if you know what to show it to trigger certain emotions...then you can tell a meaningful story." Rohan's voice grows a little more passionate, almost heated. He looks at his art, because he is, at least in flushed moments, proud of it. But he doesn't tend to linger over what he's already created; he doesn't feverishly revisit it except to keep storylines consistent but varied, to ensure pacing and style are recognizable.

Rohan doesn't bask in what he's already done, because he's too busy obsessively figuring out the next part. And it's that laser focus on what's next that has him paying more attention to Ambrose than to what they're talking about, what's right next to them.

As he speaks, he lets the sketch pad fall further from his chest, no longer clinging to it protectively. A half-feral energy spurs him past self-consciousness.

At the edge of the page, a familiar man dressed and decorated like a woman can be just glimpsed...

"The answer is yes, of course. You need a vehicle for the audience, but I've— pulled from a variety of sources to craft him." Some of which Rohan barely remembered until the events of this summer, just barely passed. Autumn's begun, Kira is dead. Reimi's been dead for fifteen years.

Rohan hadn't realized how much he had just-barely remembered of her until he'd gone back to writing his manga after speaking with her and the cemetery keeper. "The answer of who he comes from isn't nearly as interesting as what's done with him, though. The source isn't as important as the output." Spoken with no small degree of dismissiveness.

At his core...Rohan just doesn't know how to express any of the emotions he feels about his own work. He'd rather talk technique or drive or maybe even admit his feverish need to create, but not the softer core of what happens between those pages.