This is going to be really short eyyy

I was thinking of the ship I'd use this on, but IwaOi seemed the most suitable for this kind of plot.

Well. . . IwaOi kinda does fit in all kinds of storylines LMAO
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He was a mage who died in battle.

He was a mage who risked his life for the sake of his people, his town, his family.

He was a mage who feared nothing.

He was a mage who was lonely. . . yet could provide unequalled comfort.

He was a mage who had left behind a hopeless painter who could do nothing but stare at his artworks and attempt to sell them on the dirty streets by night and day, to uninterested people who wrapped themselves in gray cloaks and black suits wearing bitter expressions.

He was Hajime, an impulsive, brave and selfless warrior who may have lacked wit, but had all the courage and valour in all of the planet.

He had befriended many, many people, captured the hearts of a thousand women and gained the respect of a million noblemen. He outshined his superiors, he excelled in spellcasting, he had a natural air of charm about him that could make any artist writhe in a sudden burst of inspiration.

But that inspiration was painful, for his downfall, along with all else, showed the true meaning of honor, and it was what Tooru had been looking for, all his life.

Tooru had painted scenes, abstract art portraying intellect, bravery, affection, compassion, portraits of legendary heroes and even fictional ones. Yet never had he completed a piece which contained the emotion called love, and of honor, for he had never tasted such things, never had seen, such as freedom, and he couldn't bring himself to lift that brush and start completing an artwork that portrayed as such.

And by this time, he couldn't bring himself to draw anything, for he felt empty.

For he, who taught the lowly painter what emotions were, he, who told the filthy painter of what the world was like when bathed in golden light, he, who held the dishonorable painter's scarred hands, he, who made a simple painter's monochrome point of view ever so colorful, was now ceasing to exist.

And so was Tooru's will to accept what was done and what was not, and to accept what he had and what he didn't.

"I promise, you'll be rich one day, Tooru. You'll go far with your talents, honestly! You'll travel the world! I bet you'd get lost on the way, though." The brunette remembered Hajime's words as he pushed the doors to the mage's study open.

The hinges creaked and muttered protests as they were all strewn with rust, and the oak was barely holding on. It had been seven years. Seven long years, and it was enough to drain the life out of the once-dynamic and cozy little study they hung out in.

Tooru approached the wooden table which once glowed with enchantment and mindblowing circles of magic, that spun around with runes and the soft whirring of the spellcasting system, which the shorter male had once tried to explain to him. Remembering the times they had gone through together, Tooru couldn't help but choke on his words.

"You're technically 23, damnit. Yet you're still so immature. . ." He muttered to himself as he traced the carving on the mage's desk. It was the symbol, the crest that would give you the rights and privileges that the higher class casters were granted, but, also, the weight of the responsibilities that these special beings had to shoulder.

He was only sixteen when he marched up to the front lines, vision obscured by the thick stream of blood that flowed down his face, left arm torn off and equipment blown away, and chanted a massive self-destruct spell that everyone in the town who was capable of magic, had been taught.

His comrades had followed his lead, tears exiting their dehydrated bodies as the show of selflessness had struck them like a string of lightning, letting them see the beauty there was, the deathly beauty that true bravery had contained. He was younger than everyone by number, but he was way older and more experienced when it had come to leadership and by putting the mages' pledges to heart.

"You'll be able to take as much gold as you can and never, ever starve again. But if you'll become world-famous, Tooru, don't go about flaunting your achievements to the lesser."
"Why would you say that?"
"Well, you seem like the person who would do that."

He laughed bitterly, remembering that afternoon when he and Hajime had raced up the hill that once stood infront of this library when they were about thirteen. He looked out the window, and, seeing nothing but barren land, turned away.

It hurt his eyes.

This destruction was caused by the very gods who had granted them this life and all this land.

They offered magical abilities to the humans.

But now that they had started to develop further than what the gods had expected, they sent out forces that were capable of killing them, the divine beings, to wreak havoc on the face of the land.

Such illogical reasoning.

Why were those beings who ruled over them like this?

Why couldn't they just leave the humans alone?

Why were they so full of greed for superiority and power?

Why did they find faults in even the tears of a newborn baby?

Why did they have to take everything away?

Why did they have to bestow immortality and eternal youth upon a painter that didn't have a life of his own?

What was their purpose?

Seven years ago, the god-slayers had managed to wipe out every single being on this plain. Every tree. Every rock. Every mountain. But they disappeared before they could harm any of the man-made buildings.

Tooru remembered himself waking up, buried under a pile of rubble. He felt nothing, no pain, no stinging, as he crawled out of the debris, which made dust fly all over, and out into the sunlight.

He never expected to find a ruined town, a still sea, and a lifeless sky, after his ordeal under the rubble.

Tooru moved across the room and ran his fingers along the dust-clad bookshelves and glass cases that sat atop a select few pedestals. He strode towards the silver case, placed neatly on the highest podium beside the work desk. And his name was etched upon the material in an embossed design.

With shaky hands, he picked the box up. There was no sense in being cautious. There was no one to be careful around anymore. He was alone. Alone to rot away, if, that is, his immortality would allow him to.

He opened it.

He picked up the golden brush that was inside it.

He remembered.

"I'll help you be rich. That way, you'll never be lonely, and you'll stop pestering me when I'm working on my spells."

Such childish words, such wishful thinking, such impossible, unreachable dreams for a kid of age fourteen.

But still, Tooru grasped the brush in his palm, exited the study and set off to his house to give life to another story on the canvas.

\

"Good morning, Tooru!"

The old woman who was in charge of the town's local bakery greeted the painter as he entered the shop, almost automatically. Smiling back at her, the brunette paid for a bag of pastries. When he stepped out of the building, the cry of the seagulls rang in his ears. The warmth of the early morning sun made him shield his face from it as he walked through the bustling crowds, listened in on the merchant to customer conversations that were the same as every day.

He dodged the falling batch of watermelons that came from the prankster of the town that happened the same as every day.

He took the same route in the alley that had no bandits, same as every day.

He was greeted by the townspeople and he greeted them, same as every day.

He arrived, and he was infront of his door. He unlocked the knob and twisted it, jerking the wooden board open, heading towards the kitchen to place the bread on the table, going back to his room and sitting on the stool infront of the canvas just the same as every day.

As he grasped the cloth in between his fingers and looked out the window, he saw the same, tranquil yet dynamic blue water that shone in the sunlight. He was happy. This was happiness. This was what he had been devoid of all these years. And now, he, who taught him of what it really meant, was coming back.

He was soon to live again.

Tooru picked up the golden brush and tossed the cloth that covered his current piece away, down to the ground. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

It wasn't real. He knew, yet he didn't want to accept, and he wasn't going to surrender to reality, to reality that the gods who had cursed him had made.

As he painted the eyes of Hajime, he watched a spark of vitality suddenly appear in those blue irises which weren't of the gray-blue of ice, but of the crystal-blue of an innocent sky. He drew the last stroke over the mage's eye, and slowly, slowly, he watched it disappear from the canvas.

And he waited.

Waited.

Waited.

And heard the knock on his door as that voice he has never had a chance to hear in twenty years rang in his ears. It was almost automatic, but it still belonged to Hajime.

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Okay, that immortality part wasn't supposed to be there but ohhh weeelll. But eyyy, the people and the events that happen each day are all the same because the people were just fake and all, and that was how Oikawa remembered them. Lmao this was the shortest oneshot I've ever written, but it has more sense lmaaao.