Title: The Portrait

Rating: G

Disclaimer: I OWN YOUJI!!! :::gets shot by the real owners of Weiss Kreuz::: :::last dying words::: I lied. ::::chokes and dies:::

Author's Notes: It dawned on me last night that Youji's my fave character and I haven't really written about him. Instead, I've seem to be focusing all my WK inspiration on Crawford, who on most days I tend to dislike. Err... curse my stupid muse. Anyway, so I've forced myself to write this Yotan fic! Please, R&R!!!

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It was a year ago when this picture was sketched. A solemn, little thing one of the fangirls had dragged into the flowershop did it. She had been a black-haired, shy girl, with a sleek black ribbon in her long, straight hair. She had drawn it... Created it in two hours or so, sitting in back. All that talent - it was so unexpected. But not as unexpected as what she chose to draw... All that beauty was poured out of one simple mechanical pencil. But you'd never know it by the radiance of the drawing. A 'doodle' she had called it. Youji called it a 'masterpiece.' As cliché as it sounded, it was splendor personified.

It hung, in a silver frame, above his dresser. Deep, lead-colored eyes looked at Youji, who was relaxing on his stomach on his twin bed. It was a portrait of himself; a passing acknowledgment from an unknown artist. And yet... he could never hope in a million years to look as handsome, as elegant, as she had portrayed him.

Ken-ken joked, "You only keep it because you're so in love with your own face." But that wasn't the reason... The serious, framed face looked back at his own serious face. He kept it because it had sent all his shields crumpling down. One stupid drawing made all his smart-mouth jokes, his insincere flirts, his gambles, his facades he pulled over his face as masks... it made it all a waste of fleeting time. One girl, less than sixteen years old, had taken a moment's look at the playboy's face and then revealed all of his timeless secrets in one little sketch. If he wasn't so impressed, he would be insulted. She didn't even know him and he certainly had never seen her somber face before. And yet... this portrait said differently. The grim look the depiction had was the look Youji often got after a mission. But... she couldn't have know about that. Could she...?

He could remember that day very clearly. It was rainy heavily and the skies were streaked with sad blues and dull grays. The beating of the shower forced all of the fangirls inside their shop after school had let out. Ouka was there, snide as always. The regular blonde and brunette girls were there. The raven-haired whiners were there. All of them crowded around the four men, getting the entire shop wet. Aya was growling out his normal line: "If you're not buying anything, GET OUT!" Ken-ken was laughing, blush creeping up his face, as the girls practically threw themselves on him. Omi was having trouble diving his attention between the phone calls and Ouka. Youji was leaning, casually, against the back wall, avoiding as much work as he could possibly could. Then it happened.

She reminded him as a stray puppy, whimpering as her friend dragged her into the dry shop. She was soaking wet, cold, and sniffling. Dismal eyes kept rushing back to the exit - no, she really didn't want to be there. Her midnight hair was pulled into two buns, each on either side of her head. Glistening skin glowed under the drenched sailor uniform. Her friend, a ditzy girl named Kaoru, had had the umbrella, and by the looks of the sopping stranger, Kaoru hadn't bothered sharing it.

Smooth as always, Youji swept into the back room, grasped a small blanket, then entered back into the busy shop.

"Here," he had said, draping the warmth over the girl and setting her up in a corner of the shop. This, of course, caused her to receive many glares from the other girls. Youji glared back, annoyed with the cattiness, then turned back to the nervous girl. "Anything I can get you?"

"Blank paper, please," she whispered, barely audible.

It was an odd request, but he didn't question it. He went back into the storage room and returned with a stack of paper. She awed it slightly, then fingered the first piece gently. It was like she had never seen some so crisp, so white before. Watching it with a certain level of puzzlement, she waited. Youji leaned against the wall behind her and waited too, but he wasn't sure why. She closed her eyes, a sort of prayer in the respect of art. Maybe she was silently asking for forgiveness and understanding on why she was about mark up something so pure. Or maybe she was letting the muse sing through her soul and into her fingertips. But whatever reason she had for closing her eyes, it was her own secret. After minutes of silence in her, she smiled, eyes open and determined, letting out the breath she had been holding. One neon-blue mechanical pencil was pulled out of her pocket and she held it reverently in her left hand. It was time.

A large oval in the middle of the page was sketched softly, lead leaving a light trace of silver on the vast white. Then it was darkened and fixed. A line in the middle became a nose. Two eyebrows and one tight-lipped, reflective mouth was added also. Two, light outlines of sad eyes. Two circles fitted in each outline, soon to be his own, brown irises. A wavy sketch of his own hair was placed around the lead face. She erased his soft curls many times before being pleased with the result. She darkened all this, added short eyelashes and specks of white light in the eyes. Dark pupils were shaded in and a neck was added. A handsomely-sculpted chest was drawn, with a collared shirt hanging off the shoulders. All of that was outlined darker, then shaded into various grays. Behind the portrait, in the background, a moon and stars were up in the right corner. Midnight, smudged gray was scribbled into the foreground, providing a backdrop. She signed her name: Mika Kobara. Then the date: April tenth. Then the title: "Listen to the Music."

After she was done, she sat back, beaming in all her fragility. The mixture of artistic charm and silver caught one of the fangirls' eye. She suddenly whisked it away from the artist, horrified now, and raised it up, showing the other girls. They swooned over it, praising the girl for drawing own of their bishonen. But the dark girl was scared of the attention and seem quite shaken up. She had drawn it for herself, her own amusement and her own muse, not for their pleasure. And she wanted it back.

But before it would be given back, prissy Ouka grasped it, a frown on the princess's face.

"What it this?" she gasped, lifting one accusing eyebrow. "You call this Youji-san? Hardly," she scoffed, thrusting the paper back at the girl, crinkling the edge.

The girl took it back, fear in her eyes.

"Youji-san has never looked serious in his life," she explained, approving nods coming from the peanut gallery. He had scowled at her, not liking her badgering the poor girl. "He's happy-go-lucky. Someone's who has only met him once really doesn't have the right to try and decipher his emotions through a badly-drawn picture. Obviously, you know nothing about portraits. You're suppose to try and capture the soul of the person." She sniffed, snobby as ever. "You certainly HAVEN'T captured Youji-san, playboy extrordinaire."

Good, gentle Omi entered into the conversation now, saying, "But, Ouka-san, isn't art interpretation at its best? So shouldn't that mean she can draw Youji-kun as she sees him, not how you see him?"

Ouka brushed off the comment, instead latching on to Omi's arm. "So you know about art, Omi-chan? Why don't you and me walk over to the art gallery a couple blocks down from here? Then you can tell me all you know about art."

And like that, the argument was over and the fangirls were back to worshipping the florists and left the new girl alone. She, however, looked melancholic. Youji was sure that she had never been criticized in her life, that she had always been admired for her talent by many artistic teachers and peers. Hearing just harsh words from a common person who probably had trouble drawing stick-figures was heart-breaking.

Before he knew what he was saying, he had murmured, "Don't listen to Ouka-san. She's a high-priced brat. I really like your drawing."

A ghost of a smile leapt on to her face. "Thanks." It was a soft sound, that girl's voice, like she was unsure if she was allowed to even speak to them. Deep eyes went to the clock: almost six. And still pouring outside. "I have to go," she said, more to herself than to him. Getting up, she didn't bother to find the Kaoru in the mess of conversations. She just prepared to leave on her own.

"Hey, wait," Youji told her, delicately pulling on her shirt to stop her. She shivered slightly, like she had never been touched so friendly before. He flashed his trademark grin and laughed, "You didn't think I'd let you leave with out an umbrella, did you?" Gathering up the blanket, he disappeared in back. It took him a while to find a working umbrella, but he did eventually. And then he went out to give it to the girl. No sense allowing her to catch cold.

But she wasn't anywhere in the shop when he got back. On the table was a piece of paper that, in minuscule, cramped handwriting, said, "Thank you for allowing me to stay in the warmth of your shop and the use of your blanket. I hope this will pay for the kindness you have shown me." Flipping it over, in all its sensational glory, was the sketch of Youji.

And he had kept it ever since... It was him, just him. Nothing more, nothing less. No extravagant swirls or twirls. No flamboyant squiggles and doodles. Just a pure picture, depicting a man who had seen much more than his countenance would ever indicate. This hadn't been drawn by some perverted girl with no lovelife, or some pompous painter who thought only his art bestowed the world with perfection. This had been drawn by a frail stray who had been looking for the warmth of a smile.

She hadn't shown up at the shop again and Kaoru, the great friend she was, never had once mentioned the girl again. It was like she had never existed... Everything, the black ribbon in her long hair, the pale skin, the somber eyes was gone. All except the picture that she had drawn.

Whether it was by chance she had guessed Youji's essence, or because she actually could see it, he never found out. But the framed portrait hung over his dresser, never to be removed. It was rare when you found someone who understood you at first glance. And Youji never wanted to lose that memory of the girl, because she was one of the few who 'got' him - 'got' Youji Kudou.

Sighing, he rolled over on his side, back to the illustration. Tired eyes slid shut and the lanky blonde started to snore.

On the back of the picture, the penciled message was still there: "Thank you for allowing me to stay in the warmth of your shop and the use of your blanket. I hope this will pay for the kindness you have shown me." But the supposed playboy had overlooked one thing: It was soft, always invisibly soft, in miniature script and had quickly been erased a year ago. But if you studied it carefully, you could still make it out. A kind note from a weak, lost soul:

"You'll always be in my prayers."

Funny, because that's exactly what Youji thought every time he saw the portrait...

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THE END

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A/N's: Now, boys and girls, you all know the drill. Review and tell me what you think.