Detective Conan: I'm a Boy, But They Treat Me Like a Big Sister — Chapter 33

Chapter 33: The Genius Artist’s Creative Block

Monday morning sunlight filtered into the classroom, doing absolutely nothing to lift the heavy gloom radiating from the seat in front of Tōhō Getsukai. Eriri was slumped face-down against her desk. Her signature blonde twin-tails, usually bouncing with arrogant energy, hung limply toward the floor like wilted vines.

“It’s over,” a muffled, ghostly voice drifted back to him. “Dongfang-san, I’m finished.”

Tōhō casually twirled a strand of his own silver hair around his index finger. He didn’t even bother looking up from his desk. “You declare the end of your life at least three times a month.”

“It’s for real this time!” Eriri snapped her head up. The dark circles under her vivid blue eyes were so heavy she looked like she’d gone three rounds in a boxing ring. “Over the entire weekend, I churned out thirty discarded drafts. Thirty! The lines are completely lifeless. The compositions are absolute garbage.”

She buried her hands in her blonde hair, letting out a dramatic, dying wail. “My inspiration is completely dried up. My creative career ends here. I’m destined to scan barcodes at a convenience store for the rest of my miserable life.”

Tōhō finally spared her a proper glance. She wore the standard Sobu High School uniform, but the red ribbon at her collar sat crookedly, and a distinct crease marred the hem of her pleated skirt. For a school idol who usually maintained a flawless, untouchable facade, this level of dishevelment was a glaring red flag.

He silently calculated a score in his head. “What time did you finally sleep last night?”

“…Four o’clock.”

“And what time did you get up?”

“Six-thirty.”

Tōhō reached across the gap between their desks. He caught Eriri’s chin between his index and middle fingers, gently but firmly tilting her face toward the light.

“Heavy dark circles, deepening laugh lines, and chapped lips.” His thumb brushed lightly near the corner of her mouth. “Student Sawamura, if you keep ruining your complexion like this, you’ll have to rely on heavy beauty filters just to draw your own self-portraits.”

A furious blush exploded across Eriri’s pale cheeks. She jerked her head back, her embarrassment instantly flaring into defensive anger.

“Can you… Can you not do this every single time—”

“Do what?” Tōhō tilted his head, the picture of innocent concern.

“Touch my face like you’re inspecting a prize heifer!”

He let his hand drop, blinking his long silver lashes. “I am merely showing appropriate concern for a dear classmate’s health.”

Eriri ground her teeth audibly. She spun around and collapsed back onto her desk, her twin-tails swaying erratically.

Ten seconds of heavy silence passed. Then, a slight movement.

A pale hand crept backward from beneath Eriri’s desk. Two trembling fingers pinched the very edge of Tōhō’s uniform sleeve. The grip was feather-light—the slightest tug from him would break it.

“…Student Dongfang.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you free after school?”

Tōhō glanced down at the fingers clutching his cuff. “Is something the matter?”

Eriri pressed her face deeper into her folded arms. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I need… reference material.”

“What kind of material?”

“…Live reference.”

She finally turned her head just enough to look at him. Her blue eyes swam with a chaotic mix of shame, intense reluctance, and desperate pleading. The pristine mask of the Sobu High idol had completely shattered, leaving only the crazed doujin artist who would gladly sacrifice her dignity on the altar of a deadline.

“I just can’t draw it,” she confessed, biting her lower lip. Her words tumbled out in a frantic rush. “That kind of… thrilling, living beauty. Staring at photos won’t work. Imagining it in my head isn’t enough. I need a real, breathing person right in front of me.”

“And so?”

“So I need you to be my art model.” Before he could even open his mouth, she rushed on, “Just normal! Normal sketching practice! I swear on my life I won’t draw anything weird!”

Tōhō leaned back in his chair, letting the silence stretch. He tapped his slender fingers against the wooden desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

Eriri swallowed hard, her shoulders tense.

“That is exactly what you promised last time,” Tōhō noted, his feminine voice smooth and unhurried. “And what was the result?”

A visible shudder racked Eriri’s frame. “Th-that was an accident! My hand just slipped and I drew a little bit of yuri—”

“A little bit?”

“…”

“Student Sawamura, you published an entire volume.”

“That was… creative freedom!” she muttered, refusing to meet his gaze.

Tōhō reached out again. His fingertips caught a loose lock of her blonde hair, slowly twirling the silky strands. The casual intimacy made Eriri freeze in place.

“I can help.”

He leaned forward, closing the distance until his silver hair slipped over his shoulder, brushing against the fabric of her sleeve. He released the blonde curl and lightly tapped the tip of her nose.

“But you are absolutely forbidden from drawing me in such a shameless manner. Otherwise…”

He let the sentence hang. A breathtakingly beautiful, yet utterly terrifying smile bloomed on his face.

Eriri nodded frantically, her twin-tails bouncing. “I promise, I promise!”

Yet, behind those panicked blue eyes, the gears of a doujin artist were already spinning. It’s fine as long as I don’t draw hetero intimacy, right? Just a pure, beautiful yuri depiction of friendship between two gorgeous girls. That shouldn’t count as shameless… surely not?

Tōhō watched the transparent shift in her expression. He mentally docked the genius artist’s credit rating by another full point.

…

After school, the Art Club was entirely deserted.

The late afternoon sun poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing the spacious room in a rich, warm amber. Eriri had spoken to the club president in advance to secure the space for two uninterrupted hours.

She practically flew around the room, setting up the wooden easel and frantically arranging her paints.

“Go stand by the window,” she ordered, planting her hands on her hips in her signature bossy stance.

Tōhō arched an eyebrow. “In such a hurry?”

“Inspiration is fleeting! Quick, quick, quick!”

Taking his time, Tōhō strolled over to the windowsill and leaned casually against the frame. The setting sun backlit his figure, weaving a halo of warm gold through his long silver hair.

Slowly, he raised a hand to his collar and popped the top two buttons of his uniform shirt.

Eriri, who was in the middle of squeezing crimson paint onto her wooden palette, froze completely.

The unbuttoned collar revealed the smooth, fair lines of his collarbones, dipping down into the shadows of the crisp white fabric. His slender neck, the relaxed slope of his shoulders, and the lazy, careless way he leaned against the glass created an image of devastating, effortless allure.

Pop.

Eriri squeezed the metal tube so hard the bottom seam ruptured, sending a glob of red paint onto her knuckles.

“What are you dazing off for?” Tōhō asked, tilting his head.

“Nothing!” She snapped her gaze down, frantically grabbing a brush. “Don’t move! Keep exactly that pose!”

The second the bristles touched the canvas, the clumsy, exhausted girl vanished. Her blue eyes sharpened into absolute focus. Her strokes became aggressive, decisive, and fluid. The half-dead husk from the morning had fully rebooted into her genius mode.

Tōhō held his pose, quietly watching her paint.

Hmm, she’s entered a flow state. Better not disturb her right now. Let her paint.

Fifteen minutes ticked by.

“Let’s take a short break.” Tōhō pushed off the windowsill, rolling his stiff neck.

Eriri didn’t even twitch. She was entirely deaf to the outside world.

Curious, Tōhō padded softly across the room, stepping up behind the easel. He leaned over her shoulder to inspect the canvas.

Two girls. Faces inches apart. Intimate tension thick enough to cut with a knife. One of them had distinct, flowing silver hair.

…Fine.

He could settle this score later anyway.

He leaned closer. His silver hair cascaded down, the cool strands brushing lightly against Eriri’s bare forearm. His warm breath ghosted across the shell of her ear.

Her brush stopped dead.

“Nice drawing,” Tōhō murmured right beside her ear, his tone low and laced with dry amusement. “Looks like your inspiration has fully returned?”

The brush slipped from Eriri’s fingers, clattering onto the floorboards. She stiffened like a board.

“C-Can you not suddenly get so close?!”

Tōhō straightened up, reaching out to give her burning cheek a brief, teasing pinch. “Good work, genius artist.”

Without another word, he scooped up his school bag and headed for the sliding door.

“W-Wait a minute! You’re just leaving like this?!”

“Yes. I have prior engagements.”

“What could possibly be more important than being my model?!”

Tōhō didn’t bother answering. He offered a lazy wave over his shoulder and disappeared down the end of the hallway.

“Tōhō Getsukai!!!”

Her tragic, betrayed wail echoed down the corridor, but he didn’t look back.

Leaving her hanging was the correct tactical move. If he gave her everything she wanted in one sitting, she wouldn’t come chasing after him tomorrow.

…

The hallway outside the Service Club was quiet.

As Tōhō rounded the final corner, he spotted an unfamiliar figure hovering outside the sliding door.

She wore the standard girls’ uniform. Her shoulder-length pink hair was gathered into a loose, messy bun, and she clutched a cloth-wrapped food container to her chest like a shield.

She raised a trembling hand toward the door handle, hesitated, dropped it, and then raised it again. She repeated this agonizing cycle at least three times, looking like she might spontaneously combust from sheer anxiety.

Tōhō slowed his steps, his leather shoes clicking softly against the linoleum.

The sound made the pink-haired girl whip around.

She froze. Her eyes widened, taking in his silver hair, his flawless features, and the gentle curve of his lips.

“Y-You’re so beautiful…”

The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. The second she processed what she had just said, a violent shade of scarlet rushed up to her hairline.

“Ah, no! I didn’t—I mean, excuse me, is this the Service Club?”

Tōhō looked at the flustered, panicked face of Yui Yuigahama. The bun, the pink hair, the death grip on the homemade cookies.

The corner of his mouth curved upward.

He reached past her, his pale hand grasping the metal handle of the door, and smoothly slid it open, stepping aside to give her room.

“It is.”

His voice was soft, calm, and perfectly welcoming.

“Would you like to come in and have a seat?”