Chapter Text
“Never stop painting, okay? Your art is expressive and loving, I’ve always admired it so much. It really is perfect…”
—Echoes in a distant voice, one which he should have left amidst the pieces of forgotten memories.
Today, those words feel like a lie. The sweet kind. Told to placate or let down someone gently. Although, thinking of it doesn’t placate him at all.
He thumbs over the ring on his index finger and recalls how long ago it’s been since he’s heard those words, since he’s heard that voice. Quite a while. Years, even. Back then, everything made more sense and life seemed easier. Not like now. Where days stretch into long lazy walks to nowhere in particular, but life still feels like it’s in overdrive. It takes too much effort to think, let alone create a piece of art.
Creativity was always a brush stroke away. Inspiration ignited every time his eyes laid upon a blank canvas, the ideas endlessly overflowing his mind with colors, lines, textures and shapes.
But, what about now?
The sketchbook nestled in his palms yearns to be drawn in. Left starved, save a pitiful five pages of figures half-scribbled on as a source of pseudo-progress. Light, uncertain lines don’t qualify and the pathetic excuse for shading looks more akin to stagnant dirt on the page. Instead, erasers are chewed and torn. Pencils shaved down until they’re tired, giving him something to blame. It’s impossible to frame a story when the tools aren’t there to aid him.
Had they ever been?
Has he ever had what was necessary to bring art to life? To truly give these emotions shapes and form until they create an expression? Many of his recent sketches are formless; melancholic grays drifting along a world lavishly filled with color—colors he can no longer feel. Every line is mechanical and forced, no better than a robotic imitation of what art was meant to be.
There are nothing but tools around the classroom, but he can’t bring himself to use any of them.
Uncomfortable, he shifts in his chair, twirling a pencil for what feels like the entire duration of a film. Watching life idly go by, monotonous.
“Kyungsoo?” His art professor calls, “Having a bit of trouble these days?” No matter how unassuming his chipper tone is, Kyungsoo would rather not hear the obvious question stated time and time again. The harsh rays of his sunshiny demeanor remind him to face his failures.
“Mr. Lee, I don’t think I’ll be able to finish in time.” he hangs his head, eyes boring into the white pages. Looking into his teacher’s eyes requires confidence which Kyungsoo is sorely lacking.
“Inspiration will always come back to you. But Kyungsoo,” the man speaks softly, “I think she would have liked for you to draw what you feel. Some of the world’s greatest works drew from moments of intense grief, anger, and sadness. Why the French philosopher, Albert Camus, once said: Perhaps the greatness of art lies in the perpetual tension between beauty and pain, the love of men and the madness of creation, unbearable solitude and the exhausting crowd, rejection and consent.”
Kyungsoo squeezes his eyes, clenches and unclenches his fist. “I know.”
Mr. Lee gives him a heartfelt pat on his shoulder and continues walking around the room observing and critiquing the other students’ works.
Soft ebony hair shifts over his shoulders as Kyungsoo turns to look out the window into the edges of sunken clouds. A few raindrops drained of today’s woes shower down in a brief storm. The last rainfall to usher in the heat of summer.
Kyungsoo reaches for his pencil and attempts again to fulfill that distant lie.
When the next day arrives, the sky is empty. Lonely. A kindred spirit, in that sense. No scatters of white shapes to overlay pale cerulean blues and the friendless sun.
Rays of light follow his steps that trudge through an ivory ornate gate and down a long cemented pathway, passing the lush garden filled with flowers of every color.
The house before him is styled after the Victorian homes in the United Kingdom; steady and high walls, steeps and a gabled roof reminiscent of a castle. A fashionable dollhouse with touches of modern work that allows it to stand out amidst the sparsely filled neighborhood of uninspired boxes. It boasts an ashy gray color, but on rainy days it could pass for a depressing blue. Large and imposing at first visit, being far too big and hauntingly beautiful. However, Kyungsoo is well acquainted with this house.
Before Kyungsoo reaches the front door, it slings open, a disarray of legs and arms being shoved through.
“Get the fuck out!” cracks like lightning, stirring a sound wave that smacks Kyungsoo in the face at the same time as the bundle of staggering limbs.
“You’re breaking up with me?!” The man jerks around with swollen fiery cheeks, half dressed, still pulling and zipping up his trousers.
Kyungsoo wonders how hard he was slapped. If the flashes of red on paler skin would brighten better.
“Are you dumb?!” Incredulous, Baekhyun gasps.
“It’s not like that! Baby, please believe me.”
Baekhyun flicks out two middle fingers. “Take your little, two minute dick and get off my property!”
“Bitch!” The man storms past Kyungsoo whose existence is thinner than air.
Baekhyun charges two steps forward and shouts, “You shouldn’t speak of your poor mother that way!” near animated puffs of smoke stream out his ears, and Kyungsoo dares to be amused, holding in a laugh. “Did you want first row seats today?” Baekhyun stabs sharp words at him with a sword dulled by misplaced anger. Baekhyun snatches his body around and flounces inside.
Kyungsoo follows him into the spacious house, padding to an orange designer couch. He drops with a sigh. “I didn’t think I'd stumble into Broadway.”
Baekhyun frets around his living room and Kyungsoo’s brow arches.
There's always something to look forward to when he visits his best friend whose life has more ups and downs than a rollercoaster. Oftentimes, his house reflects his inner turmoil, clean one minute and dreary the next. There’s no difference this time. It appears a storm swept through with the way everything is arbitrarily thrown around, though it could be a result of the fight he just had.
Baekhyun’s place was given to him from his wealthy aunt. Her tastes were as gaudy as they come, and Baekhyun seemed to have dabbled in her affluent taste. Although, his taste is better, including his artistic flair which makes the house more homey. Every wall is adorned with a painting created by the prodigy himself, most garnering him awards and other notable accolades.
There are bright couches, colorful wallpapers and tables that don’t appear to match. But despite the clashing colors, they somehow come together in a sonorous clamor of harmony. And Kyungsoo never ceases to be amazed at how there’s so much color, but Baekhyun insists on wearing nothing but black clothing. The contradiction still makes his head spin.
Baekhyun glances at Kyungsoo’s blank stare. “We can’t both be like this.” he finds and shoves a cigarette between his lips. A ruby red lighter sparks it before he inhales and grumbles, “That fucker.” With every exhale, Baekhyun lysols the air with a spray from a can, making for a peculiar sight. Weary limbs slink into a green tufted club chair. “Don’t be fooled by the promises, they really aren’t shit.” is followed by a spray.
“Want to talk about it?” Kyungsoo tinkers with the orange lamp shade beside him.
Baekhyun shakes his head, sprays the lysol with a vacant stare. “I’m fucking 30, will I always be an asshole magnet?”
Kyungsoo shrugs. The diva queen is only 29 this year, no need to go jumping into the next decade like this. “Maybe stop dating celebrities, try someone normal?” His friend insists on dating celebrities or influencers, yet, none of his relationships seem to last. But he continues to question why. The problem seems obvious to Kyungsoo.
Baekhyun’s cheek hollow with a puff. “Normal got you nowhere.” though he meant no harm, the truth in the words sting more than he intends. “Sorry,” he stuffs the cigarette in an ashtray. “You came at the worst time.” Baekhyun sighs.
“My impeccable timing seems to never fail.” Kyungsoo presses his lips.
Baekhyun onces him over, eyes growing narrow. “We’re twinning these days…”
“As if my day wasn’t horrible enough.”
Baekhyun scoffs. “So, what is it? The bus didn’t work out?”
“I tried.” Kyungsoo covers his eyes with his palm. “Any other ideas would be great.”
Baekhyun stares into a bright yellow vase filled with white lilies on the round coffee table. “Hmm...Try crowds. There’s a fair coming to town tomorrow. Go. Look at the lights, the bodies, the life, the people. And allow it to breathe through you.”
The palm slides down Kyungsoo’s face, and he grumbles, “Geniuses are always talking about breathing.”
“Don’t be mad at the process, you have to learn to let it flow through you.”
“Like a wave?”
“Like an emotion.” Baekhyun scratches his head. “Any emotion at all really, anything other than this half-assed moping.” he gestures at Kyungsoo.
“You are the quintessential philosopher of our century who everyone needs.”
“How is it possible that you’re bitchier than me and I just found out my ex boyfriend was sleeping with 3 other people?”
Kyungsoo grimaces. “Did you at least slap him for every one?”
“Four times, one for good measure.” Baekhyun smiles with a push off the couch. “But you should go. With any luck, you’ll be able to garner something. And worst case scenario, your mopey ass can get some fresh air. I’ve heard it’s good for you, ya know?”
Kyungsoo nods, seemingly understanding what Baekhyun suggests. In spite of everything, for the past six months, Baekhyun has been by his side while in his darkest place. And the reassurance of a mentor is always comforting. Even if said mentor’s emotions change faces as quick as a flash of cards. Though it’s hard not to feel some comradery seeing the rollercoaster of turmoil his mentor always seems to be on. Kyungsoo leaves with a hopeful mindset, a change of scenery might just be exactly the kind of inspiration he needs.
Star speckled light pours down from the inky sky, contrasting with dark spots, uninhabited places that make for magical adventures. All alluding to a dream that wraps in the nightly atmosphere of the fair. The evening lamps reflect bright smiles and tinkles of laughter stretch soft, rosy cheeks. Colors rain down their shirts and fade into jeans, blending into myriads that soon become passing images.
The air swells in a mixture of bitters and salts and sugary treats. Children frolic around in high pitched squeals, giggles, and glittering eyes.
If time were to stop, this moment of happiness could be captured forever.
But even amidst the carefree smiles and warmth permeating the air, that icy numbness returns, creeping its way up Kyungsoo’s spine. Why wouldn’t it spark anything in him?
Finding motivation never came easy, and these days, vain attempts at finding inspiration simply guided him through the same cyclical pattern. It always began with the wistful staring, and the painful distance that was so evident between himself and the blissfully unaware faces he was surrounded with. Next came the thoughts, “If I can’t even pretend to feel something, how could I portray it through my art?” And despite his best efforts, forcing the brush to the canvas, somehow every work all turned out the same. Harsh, cold, and mechanical, fully detached from reality.
Kyungsoo shakes his head, frustrated that his thoughts aren’t doing much to help, and moves around through the park, deep pockets stuffed with cold hands. Cool summer gales tousles raven hair with a freshness dusting past his eyes. It’s rejuvenating.
Life continues to bustle about, every person's story laying out in their faces, mannerisms and their choices of words. Yet, Kyungsoo couldn’t capture any of them, he couldn’t see them.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kyungsoo sees a little boy fall face first into the unforgiving fairground. His father bends down, looking at the boy not with frantic concern, but a calm compassion as he pulls the boy up from the ground.
Capture it. Kyungsoo silently commands himself, mentally framing the display of love from a father. A dry chuckle dies in Kyungsoo’s throat before it could be fully formed as thoughts of his own harsh reality combats the one before his eyes. Look at how caring he is, and how happy they are. It’s dad’s only day off this week and he has to spend it trying to keep the brat from screeching through the house. After all, mommy’s beauty rest is important.
People watching comes with a sense of self awareness. That what he is missing becomes so painstakingly clear.
He isn’t happy. Hasn’t been for the last six months. But he wants to try to be happy again, to paint again.
Kyungsoo rushes to his grandmother’s studio. He doesn’t allow his mind to wander and keeps a steady train of thought on painting. He readies his brush and acrylic paints on a palette, and takes a deep breath to steady himself.
The canvas—ever stubborn—stares again.
Stark white digs into Kyungsoo’s eyes. But this time he couldn’t allow his cumbering thoughts to win. He lifts a shaky hand and brushes a stroke of scarlet down its surface.
The line is in doubt. Doesn’t quite fit, it’s childlike, shaky. He dabs the burnt orange and works it into the scarlet for warmth and it's somehow even more grotesque. Adds an olive green, then a royal blue, a regal purple. No shapes or curves, just maddening strikes cleft on the canvas one after the other tearing into the white with cuts of his daggered brush. His hands fly out of control, infernos boiling inside and out to burn the image leaving nothing but blots of murky gray madness.
Kyungsoo glares, bloodshot and wearied eyes, arms dangling at his side. Given up. He’s done all he can but there’s nothing left. Nothing he can reach for. Inspiration dead. There's little substance left to wring out of him and in search of any source of water, an oasis. Something, anything that would help him escape from this overwhelming and depressive desert of insecurity.
A string of aimless thoughts later, Kyungsoo finds himself performing magic as another drink disappears down his throat. Five wasn’t enough. And neither was six or seven—perhaps eight would do the trick to chase this feeling away.
“For you, I think they’ll have to empty the stash in the back.” A voice says beside him.
Kyungsoo isn’t certain how long that man has been sitting there. “Maybe.” he says, uncaring. He only came to this bar because it’s the closest to his apartment. Two blocks away, make a left then walk down half the street on the right and violà.
“Is this the company that it wants?” The man pops open a bottle and pours a drink. “Misery.” he turns and lifts his glass. “How about a cheers to that clingy bitch, huh Kyungsoo?”
“You don’t have to.” Slurs through Kyungsoo’s lips, barely parting to speak.
“But I want to.” The man is sure to toast their glasses and chugs his dark liquor like it’s water. “I’m Jongdae by the way.”
He tilts his head and turns toward Jongdae, his cloudy mind vaguely conjuring the image of the man’s face. “Where… ?”
“Mr. Lee’s class, fourth floor, Nevens building. We’ve been there together for 2 years now.” Jongdae chuckles, good natured and light. Not at all turned off by seemingly being invisible for an entire two years.
Kyungsoo purses his lips, nodding. “Ah, I do remember seeing you.”
“But, you don’t remember talking to me?” Kyungsoo shakes his head, the room tilts and he reaches out to the bar to steady himself. “Whoa there, let’s not drink anymore tonight and sober up a bit.” Jongdae orders a round of chicken wings, which Kyungsoo helps himself to, having zero qualms about stealing other people’s food. He’s been starving.
It wasn’t typical of him to come to the bar alone. This endeavor has only sprung about in recent months since the funeral. Whenever he couldn’t get a hold of his emotions, he finds himself at this bar, shaping up to be quite the alcoholic. Definitely not intended, but today he considered himself quite lucky to have someone to occupy his time. It’s less pitiful to drink with someone else.
Kyungsoo wipes his mouth with a napkin, sobering up a little. “Have you started your portfolio?”
Jongdae nods. “Mhm.” his pupils widen as he stares at Kyungsoo, “You know, I specifically came here to talk to you… and not just about art.” In the dim light of the bar, Kyungsoo could almost make out a flush blossoming up the man’s neck. It’s probably just the booze talking.
“Why would you want to talk to me? I’m not the most interesting company, I assure you.” Kyungsoo says, gaze wandering beyond the man in front of him, though it’s impossible to miss the warm and intentional gaze Jongdae cast in his direction, his lips curving up in amusement as he inches closer to Kyungsoo’s bar stool.
“I happen to find your company quite refreshing actually. People in art school can be really fucking pretentious.” Even in an impaired state, Kyungsoo can see the intensity behind his eyes, revealing that this is more than a chance encounter between friends.
The realization snaps him back to attention, his gaze locking with Jongdae. This is a bad idea. Kyungsoo knows the best course of action would be to politely excuse himself before he ended up doing something they’d both certainly regret.
But… why not?
What’s the real reason not to indulge in this man who seems quite interested in him? The last time he went on a date was years ago and he couldn’t even remember the guy’s name. At least, talking to someone new might spark something—something more than this building frustration.
The conversation flowed so naturally from there. The two talked about everything, until the point where there’s no doubt that they are leaving together. Jongdae’s jokes make him laugh, and his sky-reaching cheekbones and unrestrained smile is just as infectious. Everything about him carries a fun adventure, from the animated troubles of his daily life to the embarrassing stories of his past; from the woes of art school to thoughts and desires for the future. Kyungsoo’s somber mood is easily melted away for a moment where he can forget about all of his worries: the deadline, the portfolio, his family, and his grandmother.
Two hours later, Kyungsoo pulls Jongdae from the bar and into the hotel across the street. Limbs flounder, clothes haphazardly sprawl across the floor, warm hands pull at the other. Their eyes are blown with lust. The bed creaks under their interlaced bodies, breaths brushing along skin, and airy moans falling over the space between them. The full moon rises and sets, a silent audience to their shadows dancing on a window’s stage.