As Kentaro laid eyes on the man, a subtle tension coursed through his entire being. Yet, in a mere moment, he regained his composure, effortlessly masking his initial unease.
His reaction went unnoticed by Haruki, whose gaze was already fixated on the approaching figure.
The man, seemingly in his late thirties, exuded an air of sophistication, clad in a navy blue suit with a charcoal gray overcoat casually draped over his arm. Neatly bound dark brown hair cascaded into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, while a meticulously groomed beard adorned his chin.
Without hesitation, Haruki instinctively sensed that this individual wasn't so simple.
"I can't say I'm too ignorant in this field," Kentaro nonchalantly remarked upon the man's arrival. "It's just a hobby of mine."
A warm smile graced the man's lips as he responded, as if he appreciated their shared interest. "To possess even a shred of understanding speaks volumes about your dedication," he acknowledged.
Unbeknownst to Kentaro, the explanations he'd given Haruki earlier had not gone unnoticed. This man before them had discreetly observed the duo from a distance, captivated by the ginger-haired teen's analyses on par with those of a seasoned professional. Intrigued, he'd shadowed the boys inconspicuously, eager to learn more.
"Osamu Hoga," the older man introduced himself, extending his hand first. "Delighted to meet the younger generation appreciating the beauty of art."
Haruki, anticipating a customary bow, found himself pleasantly surprised by the man's proffered handshake. As their hands met, a sense of honor washed over him. "Haruki Fukuda, sir. Very nice to meet you."
But it was Kentaro's next words that sent Haruki's mind into a whirlwind.
"I never imagined encountering the renowned 'Crescent Artes' in such humble surroundings," Kentaro coolly remarked, his smile exuding confidence. "The pleasure is ours. I am Kentaro Nomura."
Renowned? So this man is famous? Haruki's mind reeled, utterly bewildered by the revelation.
'Crescent Artes' was not just a name; it was a spell woven by the enigmatic Osamu Hoga, an artistic prodigy hailing from the land of the rising sun. The luminary brush strokes of his genius had ignited the art world since his adolescence, casting a mesmerizing spell that fascinated audiences from every corner of the globe. London, his current home, served as a stage for his triumphs, where splendid exhibitions and lavish events enticed patrons and connoisseurs, all vying for a glimpse of his otherworldly creations.
Haruki's mind raced as he recalled Kentaro's previous mention of this name. A jolt of disbelief surged through his veins, causing his eyes to widen in shock. Hadn't they seen some of this man's paintings just now?? And if he remembered correctly, everything in this place was supposed to be worth a fortune!
Unlike Kentaro, whose upbringing had thrust him into the presence of illustrious figures through his father's expeditions, Haruki felt an overwhelming pressure in the presence of this unexpected luminary. Had he been too casual when he shook Mr. Hoga's hand? Should he have bowed to show respect? But the artist's outstretched arm had caught him off guard, leaving him no choice but to reciprocate.
At least act a bit more surprised so that I'm not the only one who looks foolish, Haruki mentally complained to his friend. He suddenly didn't know how to act or where to place his hands in the face of such an eminent figure.
Mr. Hoga's lips curved into a bemused smile, relishing the ginger-haired teenager's revelation. "You know of me?" he inquired, his voice laced with intrigue.
"Yes," Kentaro replied, coolly. "I am a fan your work. I've also watched quite a lot of your tutorials and conferences."
A pensive nod followed from Osamu, his eyes sparkling with delight. "I see. And are you an artist yourself?"
Kentaro spoke with a soft chuckle, lacing his words with a touch of humility. "I sketch occasionally, though I'm an amateur at best."
This admission sparked Osamu's curiosity even further. "Is that so? Have you ever shared your creations on any social platform?"
Ginger stiffened, his hand instinctively reaching for the back of his neck and gaze averting slightly. "I've never really shared my work before... My sketches are nothing special, and I don't even take photographs of them, so..."
Haruki finally understood the extent of Kentaro's unease upon witnessing his friend's reaction to Osamu's inquiry. Currently, Kentaro was far from composed. Haruki even suspected he'd never seen his friend this nervous before.
Kentaro had succeeded in concealing his jitters from the moment Osamu Hoga approached them. He maintained the cool façade he always wore when faced with a challenge. However, when his idol unexpectedly inquired about his own talents, that mask of composure began to crumble.
Understandably so, considering the fact that the man standing before them was practically his idol. It was truly a small world; Ginger never expected encountering someone like Crescent Artes in their humble town.
"Is that so? What a pity," Mr. Hoga's voice carried a tinge of disappointment. He had been genuinely intrigued to witness the hidden genius of this young prodigy.
"He really is a great artist though," Haruki interjected abruptly, drawing all eyes toward him. He tactfully disregarded Ginger's burning glare, clearing his throat with the intention of hyping up his friend some more. "I've seen all of his artwork, and I'm still confused by how human hands can produce such clear images. Meanwhile, I can hardly hold a pencil."
"It's... It's really not as impressive as he's making it out to be," Kentaro stammered, attempting to communicate with his eyes, silently pleading for Haruki to stop. But Haruki completely ignored him, thus Ginger could only futilely cover his face with a hand, failing to conceal the blush rapidly spreading across his cheeks and ears.
This was so embarrassing. For the first time in his life, Kentaro felt like he was in a very embarrassing situation.
Haruki's exaggeration knew no bounds.
Ginger couldn't help but wonder, when had he ever appeared possessed while sketching?
"... and the level of detail is mind-blowing. Believe me, every creation comes from his genius mind. Once, he sketched a mesmerizing city nightscape that tricked my eyes into seeing colors!" Haruki persisted, his words truthful but increasingly suffocating. The more he spoke, the more Ginger wished he could disappear into a deep hole. "I'm telling you, my friend here never misses the tiniest detail, like a distant car. And I still don't know how he managed to make even the street lamps glow with just a pencil. If I had known we were meeting his idol here, I would have secretly brought his sketchbook. It's insane!"
It was over. This encounter with Crescent Artes marked Kentaro's first and likely final meeting. How could he ever face the man after such an ordeal? Haru's grandiose claims lacked any tangible evidence at the moment. Kentaro could only hope that Crescent Artes wouldn't dismiss them as mere flattery to win his favor. It wouldn't be surprising if the artist was already itching to escape...
But to Kentaro's astonishment, he discovered that the esteemed artist was genuinely attentive to Haruki's words when he refocused on the conversation. Osamu Hoga, with a contemplative hand resting under his chin, nodded occasionally, despite the amateurish descriptions he was subjected to.
"I would have loved to see those sketches firsthand," Mr. Hoga finally spoke after Haruki concluded his torrent of praise for his best friend. "Your friend must be an exceptional artist."
"Absolutely," Haruki declared, hand over his heart, his sincerity shining through. "Kentaro is the most impressive person I know, and I have no doubt you'd have loved viewing his works as well, sir!"
***
The two boys perched side by side on a long bench, settled near a tranquil pond surrounded by beautiful sceneries of nature that graced the outskirts of the grand gallery, as they indulged in delicious crepes.
Earlier, they had stumbled upon this hidden gem of an outdoor oasis, an extension of the art gallery, alongside a snack shop that boasted ridiculously high prices. Having meandered through the place for quite a while, hunger had taken their toll. It was Haruki who had suggested crepes, oblivious to the eye-watering cost that awaited them within that very establishment.
Thankfully, Kentaro had come prepared, armed with one of his trusty cards, which he happily exploited to squander the Harada family's fortune. It was a duty he embraced, relishing the opportunity to exhaust their vast resources.
Now Haruki understood how his friend had acquired those VIP passes...
In a companionable silence, they savored each morsel, forgoing words in favor of peace and quiet. However, it was Haruki who shattered their hushed agreement, stifling giggles that threatened to burst forth.
Kentaro, well-aware of the cause of his friend's amusement, chose to turn a blind eye. Acknowledging it would resurrect the shadow of his humiliating ordeal from an hour ago.
...Too late. As memories of that wretched experience flooded his mind, a fiery blush instantly tinted his cheeks.
"I have the mind to punch you right now."
Haruki instantly lost it after hearing Ginger's threat, and in a laughing fit, he completely keeled over. It was a miracle the remaining half of his strawberry crepe didn't fall with him.
"Why... Why are you mad, dude?" Haru managed to gasp between fits of laughter. "In the end, everything turned out fine, didn't it?"
"But did you have to exaggerate like that?" Ginger bit into his chocolate-laden treat with a ferocity born of exasperation. "Last time I'm taking you anywhere."
"Don't be like that," Haru composed himself, righting his posture as he wiped away a stray tear. "Look on the bright side, you now have the means to contact the man. Shouldn't you be grateful for that, at least?"
And it was true. Just before Osamu Hoga was whisked away by another wealthy individual, presumably his friend judging by their casual banter, he'd given them a small business card containing his contact information.
"A-Are you sure, sir?" Kentaro had gaped at the card, his eyes bulging, evidently caught off guard by such a favorable outcome resulting from his friend's earlier meddling.
Haruki was also taken aback, since he hadn't anticipated the man to possess such a carefree disposition.
"You lack confidence in your own talent, my young friend. So why don't you share images of your creations with me, and I shall be the judge," Osamu had offered. "And if you ever require assistance or have any inquiries, I am more than free."
Reluctantly, Kentaro had to admit that perhaps Haruki had played a small part in this win... however minuscule it may be.
"Why didn't you choose the art club back then?" Haruki interjected suddenly, jolting his companion from his reverie. "It's been nagging at me ever since we arrived here. Your clearly love everything about art, and you draw like it's second nature. So why judo?"
Ginger arched an eyebrow. "Because I clearly wanted to thrash people."
"Don't give me that," Haruki knew he was lying.
Peeling back the wrapper of his crepe to savor another bite, Kentaro retorted, "There are two reasons why I didn't choose art. Can you guess what they are?"
Haru pondered for a moment before groaning in realization. "I really hope it's not what I'm thinking."
"Let's hear it."
Massaging the space between his brows, Haruki stated the most obvious rationale, "Your old man?"
"You're so smart."
"Good grief," Haru slouched against his seat, taking a bite of his confection, his words muffled. "Why am I not the least bit surprised?"
Kentaro chuckled briefly before uttering, "Let me tell you a little story..."
~
A long time ago, settled within the confines of a classroom, there was a young boy who discovered the joy of using kids' paints. It was a moment of revelation, an awakening of the senses, as he dipped his brush into a vibrant colors. His tutor, recognizing the boy's fascination with the varying shades of colors, allowed him to carry a few home. But of course, this was only the boy's first steps into the world of art.
Eventually, the boy also discovered an interesting power hidden within the pencil. Rather than only using the item to solve boring equations and write tiresome sentences, these slender tools of graphite became his instruments of creation. Every fleeting thought, every whimsical notion, found solace and expression upon the pages of his sketchbook, even if the resulting doodles appeared terrible.
He was young and lacked the experience; of course his sketches were bad.
Nevertheless, the boy found joy in creating those strange images. And as the years flew by, the boy honed his talent, refining the very essence of his pencil strokes. His mother, an ever-supportive muse, showered him with praise and told him how he'd make a great artist one day. Even his less enlightened half-siblings, with whom he shared his classes with, begrudgingly marveled at his talent. The boy surpassed them effortlessly in everything else, and his newfound artistic prowess struck at the very core of their fragile egos.
Feeling confident in himself, the young artist clutched his treasured sketchbook and resolved to show his creations to his father. This man, a figure who had always seemed distant and disapproving, held sway over the boy's aspirations. The boy yearned for the man to praise him, even if only a little. Maybe after seeing his talent, his father's regard towards him would improve, he'd hoped.
Thus, summoning the little courage he had, the boy ventured into his father's private study one fateful evening.
To his relief, he found his father in a relatively good mood, engrossed in a pile of documents near the fireplace. This was the perfect opportunity, his chance to bask in his father's approval. And just like the boy had dreamed of, those words of praised he'd longed for were actually spoken as the man perused the pages of his son's precious sketchbook.
"This is very good," his father declared, admiration dancing in his eyes. "You've done this all on your own? You're quite talented."
The boy blushed, his cheeks flushed with pride, while an elated grin stretched across his face. Here, in this rare moment, he found solace in his father's presence.
Yet, as quickly as praise had bloomed, it withered in the face of a disconcerting revelation. His father's gaze, once fixed upon the illustrations that stirred the depths of his son's soul, shifted toward him, laden with inquisition. "Is this all you do?" his father queried, voice tinged with skepticism. "You're not neglecting your studies, are you?"
Uncertainty crept into the boy's heart, and he stammered, "I...I only sketch during my spare time, sir."
A flicker of disappointment danced across his father's countenance as he closed the cherished sketchbook. "Curious," his father remarked, his tone laced with concern. "That's not what your tutor told me."
In that moment, tension gripped the boy's fragile frame. True, he'd devoted more time to his artistic endeavors than to his formal education lately, but he believed in his own capacity to excel in both fields. If his grades suffered in the slightest, it would be a trivial dip, irrelevant to what he could achieve. The boy believed he could simultaneously master academics and artistry.
However, his father's smile belied a different sentiment as he uttered those fateful words, "That won't do. You mustn't waste time on things that won't benefit your future."
And in a swift and merciless act, his father cast his son's beloved sketchbook into the fiery depths of the hearth.
Caught off guard, the boy stood motionless, a witness to his cherished creations as they were devoured by the ravenous flames.
~
Haruki was completely engrossed in the story, his mind wrapped tightly around its threads. So when the storyteller abruptly severed those threads, leaving him hanging in the void, a sense of betrayal surged through him, as if something precious had been snatched away.
"And then what? Why in the world would he do that?!!!" he erupted in anger and frustration.
Kentaro couldn't help but chuckle, amused by Haruki's passionate outburst. "Calm down, it's already in the past. Basically, my father erased every trace of art from my life and forced me to abandon the one thing I truly loved after that. It made my time at the mansion even more unbearable," he explained, savoring the last morsel of his crepe before wiping his hands clean. "It wasn't until I moved here that I started sketching again."
Haruki's voice unconsciously softened as he asked in concern, "How old were you when it happened?"
Uncertainty flickered across Ginger's face. "Nine-ish," he replied, his uncertainty a testament to the foggy memories of his childhood.
Haru's brows furrowed in both anger and sympathy. To experience such pain and betrayal at such a tender age must have been devastating.
"I did consider joining an art club here, but the memories about what happened back then kept coming back. I wasn't as eager anymore," Ginger shrugged, a resigned gesture. "Figured my dear old dad would find a way to ruin it for me again. But more than anything, I chose not to join that club because I wanted to be a part of the one where the person I liked was."
"Oh," Haruki nodded, his expression a mix of partial understanding and bewildered confusion. It took a moment for his mind to process the entirety of Kentaro's revelation, but when it finally clicked, his eyes widened in disbelief. "WAIT, WHAT???"
~~~~~~