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The bedroom was cast in moonlight from the slats between the blinds, casting long, thin strips of light across the bed. Mine was wide awake, gazing at the bar of moonlight settled gently across the plains of Daigo’s face as he slept. His breathing was easy, laying on his back with his head partially turned towards Mine. The light drew diagonally across the stubborn set of his nose, right up into his mussed hairline, and he had to fight the itch in his fingers to run his hand through it.
Daigo was the peak of beauty to him, a lifelike piece of classical art that someone allowed to be draped on the bed beside him. Cherub cheeks, and a body straight from the paintings of artists like Poussin, Michelangelo, Cabanel… Mine’s eyes followed the moonlight that painted him like brushstrokes, across his half covered chest, dipped and curved in ways that he would memorize every night.
And he’s mine.
It still amazed him that this man, commander of thousands of yakuza across Tokyo, was ready to not only sacrifice his life for Mine’s, but to give up Tojo Clan funds for Mine’s safety. No one had ever done that for him before – and, he thought, no one else ever will. Daigo had even lain with him, despite the risks of his men finding out. The thought that anyone would lose respect for the Chairman just because of who he lays with incenses Mine, made his fingers curl into fists, ready to fight for this man.
There was a shift in the blankets beside him and Mine snapped out of his reverie, eyes sharp as he took in every movement of the masterpiece beside him. Daigo had slipped over to his side, facing away from Mine, his tattoo of Fudō Myōō eyeing him warily. The wrathful deity on his back was just another piece of the art that made the man Daigo. The sword – knowledge, power – the rope that binds evil. Protector of faith. He was all of that and more to Mine.
Mine collected artwork because it would never betray him as people have done to him countless times before. He could lose every piece that he had; Daigo would never betray him.
His heart was racing as he stared down the Fudō Myōō, until he finally turned his head to face the ceiling. The moonlight through the window gradually disappeared as a cloud passed over it, drenching the room in darkness. Mine’s throat felt tight, giving a final glance to Daigo’s dark form before slipping his eyes closed, his dreams painted with brushstrokes of light and shadow.