Chapter Text
He cradled the letter between his fingers, too scared to read over the familiar handwriting.
Hence why he spent the time to admire. Admire the endless canvas of one bird beyond the window which he couldn’t understand before. But now he does, he thinks he understands how it roams so freely, like a fine paintbrush whisking through the pastel sky, seemingly with no rush. With calmness and acceptance, it’s lost in a dance. It flies over the silver-like outlines of clouds, gently striking the bright hues of cadmium orange between the spaces. Creating light streaks and painting the sky with colors never seen before. Backed by the somehow already familiar pinks and purples, yellows and blues.
It flies with diligence, carefully laying out the accents and shadows on the canvas.
And when it’s time for the dance to end, the bird stipples the last flick of ivory black with its wings spread wide open.
Yeonjun watched as it painted him a picture of grievance and hope, misery and acceptance of the temporary happiness and colors of the world.
He stared and he understood it all just as the bird took off to the other side of the clouds.
The hand in his grip grew colder and colder.
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The first time Beomgyu locked eyes with the adoring burnt umber of his irises was on a late sunlit afternoon. With the sun’s rays baking the streets in the golden hour, basking the city in warm, welcoming colors that he loved so much and the street musician’s songs playing along the low chirping symphonies of the birds and quiet banter of the bypassers.
The thing was, the young artist didn’t fancy loudness and unnecessary noise. Therehow being a byproduct of his deep-rooted hatred towards socialization that had accumulated in his teens. — The graphite memory from childhood, still in the back of his brain, in which his 14-year-old self lay numbly on his bed, staring into nothingness right after the doctor's appointment.
A brand new folder of documents in his lap already in disarray, bag full to the brim with pills scattered on the floor, and from that day onward permanently heavy lungs filled with shambles of dreams. — The memory was a small reminder, of how so many people still have a life of future stories and undiscovered fantasies.
During his childhood and stretching into adulthood, he developed a habit of which he referred to as “episodes”. In which he’d lock himself away and hope to never hear the voices of the vivid people, feel rays of sun on his skin, and the gruesome thoughts of what could’ve been. However, he was still conscious, knowing it was wrong and would drive him to insanity if he didn’t get the proof that he was still alive, still breathing, and not long gone for eternity.
So he would force himself to go out, with trembling hands he would open the blinds and see the familiar streets, lined with viridian trees, observe the nonsensical blank-faced passer-by with their lives propelling — heading forward.
And today was one of these days. Obnoxious days of “recovery” to confirm his existence after the closed blinds and shut off phones for what it’d felt like forever.
But with a lot of damp fortitude, he ended up dragging the heavy weight of his body into the depths of the busy Monday streets.
It wasn’t even noon, yet the hundreds of pedestrians were moving like ants, traveling from place to place, walking the dogs, running late to meetings, dallying in parks — living through their lives.
With attentive eyes, Beomgyu looked for a place to settle down with his supplies. Roaming around, he decided on a pretty busy spot, upon a hill with the trees out of the way, skyscrapers in view, and people walking around.
He put down his easel and traveling stool, his mailbag full of art supplies hanging on the spine of the easel. With only his canvas, paintbrush, and a sky dense with clouds of all sizes and hues, he began to paint. Paint with little to no care about his surroundings, watchful eyes, and comments.
Thus, after more and more time passed, he was too deep into the painting to notice a pair of umber eyes watching from quite nearby.
The pair of irises belonged to a man who was returning from his early shift in the boutique, walking along the streets in the early afternoon, loling in the dim rays of the sun.
As he was strolling towards his everyday ‘after-work-go-to’ ramen place, from the corner of his eye, he came to notice a slight commotion on the side of the street. He approached closer, but quickly lost interest upon making out the familiar silhouette of a spread-out easel facing him with its back. He knew who it was, considering he spotted the artisan countless times before all around the diverse streets of Seoul. However, he never bothered to look up, claiming he could and would never understand art since his youth. Because of this, he didn’t even know the gender of the painter, he simply knew they had a very round head of longish brown hair and tended to roam around the city with their easel, canvas, and supplies.
Without sparing them a glance, he strolled further in the direction of the favored restaurant but couldn’t help noticing someone kick the artist's easel and hear some kids scaring the birds away.
Strolling further, he found it strange how he didn’t witness the youth receiving a scolding or any reaction at all, to begin with.
In a short while he came to hear the familiar jingle of the doorbells and the beloved scent of spices hitting his nose.
With a quick glance at the bar counter, he simply nodded at the waiter and strolled to his usual secluded corner.
⁺
Within an hour and a half, he was already out of the restaurant and heading home.
Hands in pockets, shoulders slumped, and staring down at his feet with each step.
“……that artist on the side really does draw well, huh..”
“…mm, that’s right, I sometimes see him around—“
He walked until the sudden bump into his side.
“— Ah, I’m sorry!”
The two chattering girls looked up at him and ran off in panic, while he was left to look up from the ground.
As he raised his eyes, he quickly noticed the easel from before, except this time the canvas was looking right at him.
And suddenly, something shifted.
He unconsciously took a step closer, eyes not darting away for a second.
He came so close as to be able to watch as the brush worked itself on the linen, the tender but precise strokes bringing more and more light to the picture. Depth and shadows. Accuracy and character.
It was a simple painting of the horizon in the golden hour of the afternoon. But the more he looked, the more details he saw, the more desolate colors he seemed to appreciate and the more unknown, repressed feelings seemed to rise up.
He stood like a pole in the middle of the street, frozen in place. Eyes darting back and forth between the landscape and precise but yet so much more significant painting.
It was odd, he didn’t know how long he stood there, but he knew that he couldn’t leave. He knew that if he left, he’d once again begin to see everything in dim black and white, like a poor, old videotape. He wouldn’t let it go. It was odd.
As he thought this, his eyes finally darted down to the round head of chestnut hair. And maybe he didn’t see the man’s face but suddenly there was another thing he didn’t want to let go off.
And then his eyes began to wander from 2 to 3 things now. He was dazed.
⁺
It’s true, Beomgyu preferred to never look up from his work, no matter the intrusion. Be it the screams of the children, who to his dismay almost as if on purpose, scare the birds away. Or a suddenly passing group of tourists with their cameras all over the place and little to no care that they just kicked his easel or elbowed him in the back.
Beomgyu prefers to never look up from his canvas and see the life behind the canvas he’s painting. Never likes to see beyond what he won’t remember.
Yet, he feels like the extensive presence of another person watching his work was about to break this “never”.
However, he’s a hypocrite through thick and thin. As much as he dislikes watching the surrounding affairs around himself, he loves to work on the streets. Especially on busy streets with one or two muted corners without too many people. Corners with quiet street musicians and whispers of passers-by. He wonders if maybe it’s the jittery feeling in his stomach when he hears an admirable gasp from the young couple or the knowledge of his work being favorable, taken from the sweet compliment given by a well-aged grandma. He likes the praise and the watchful eyes, he likes the little feeling of life it brings to him.
Just maybe not when the person has been hovering over his shoulder for the past 10 minutes and definitely not marveling at his work alone.
Beomgyu could feel their gaze, and although he disliked the abnormal thought of having a pair of eyes at the back of his head, he could practically see the astonishment in the stranger’s eyes. He can also practically see how the said astonishment shifts between both the canvas and himself. Making the hairs on Beomgyu’s neck stand in discomfort.
Absurd.
He coughed into his fist, slowly turning to look around his shoulder with a crooked smile.
“Hey, is there anything I can help you with?”
Not expecting for the proximity to be this small — he was met face to face, mere inches away from the stranger's nose.
But it seemed as if the stranger was actually busy staring at the canvas with a pair of wonder-filled eyes instead of paying attention to the already irritated artisan.
Beomgyu watched as the late realization of their closeness quickly caught onto the man as he abruptly took a step back with widened eyes. Beomgyu squinted his eyes at this reaction.
But even as another few seconds passed, the stranger didn’t make a move to either walk away or reply. He simply starred with a complicated expression, fists clenched, pupils running back and forth between the city skyline, canvas, and the artisan himself at a rapid pace.
It felt odd to admit that his gaze was exceptionally warm, exceptionally intimate, and baffled with so much turmoil. It left a bitter taste in Beomgyus' mouth. His eyes shifted and he began to study the man before him, his attention was brought to the man’s piercing fox eyes under the shadow of his thick, ivory-black eyebrows. All cascading down to a well-proportionate, sharply curved nose and a pair of plump, peach lips that were presently being nibbled on by his teeth.
The painter then noticed his overly tall figure — hovering over him as he was sitting on his stool — and a very… unusual feeling to his appearance. His raven hair was perfectly styled in a middle part yet had a terribly unkempt character. The clothes he wore were leaning into “fancy” and “pricey” albeit were styled completely tasteless.
In Beomgyu’s artistic regard; the man seemed like a walking mess without an idea of beauty and self-expression.
Not to mention the man would be the last person Beomgyu would expect to see roaming between the busy streets of Seoul at dawn, marveling at sunset paintings and the sound of chirping birds.
He watched the man’s running pupils sparkle as he nervously gulped and finally glanced at the painter.
“…”
…?
“…”
What a waste of time. He thought, his patience loose on the thinnest thread.
“Perhaps I-“
“How?”
…
What.
Beomgyu was beyond simply startled. “Pardon?”
“That. How?” The man maneuvered back to Beomgyu’s side and let his eyes roam around as he pointed at the painting with a circling motion.
How what?
The closure was definitely something unasked for but Beomgyu had to keep his polite demeanor. “Eoleusin, I don’t think I understand what you mean. How, what exactly?”
“…Don’t call me that. I’m not old enough for that title.” He muttered as he turned his head to meet eyes with Beomgyu. “The name’s Yeonjun. Choi Yeonjun-“
His head went to lay on the artist and shoulder, to which Beomgyu slightly jumped.
“-your painting is so…admirable.” he said it so warmly and yet it felt like the stranger — Yeonjun. Choi Yeonjun to be precise — had a lot more to say beside the single comment of admiration.
However Beomgyu had no time to dwell on such details, albeit he was too dumbfounded by the stranger’s odd tenue.
“I..uh, appreciate that?”
“…”
“…”
The sun was setting lower and lower below the horizon, as less and less people wandered the streets. It was becoming quieter. The awkward silence between the two men stretched for longer and longer between the chirps of birds and muted chatter.
However Beomgyu didn’t have a lot of patience.
“So, Yeonjun-ssi.-“ he started with hesitation, “-is there anything else?”
The man blinked, his eyes not losing that astonished sparkle for even a second. Yet reality seemed to finally wash over him as he suddenly shook his hand and glanced at his hand watch.
He cursed under his breath. “Yeah, uhm. Goodbye.”
Yeonjun abruptly took off, but before he could take a few dozen steps he looked back and met his eyes with the painter.
And under the basking setting sun, his fox-shaped, warm eyes glistened with burnt umber as he gave the painter one last clumsy smile before running off.
Beomgyu watched the broad figure of the man get smaller and smaller before he turned the corner and completely disappeared out of sight.
He still looked in the direction, his feelings oddly complicated before he turned back to the painting.
His eyes watched the sunset and the painting in a daze.
Just what the hell was that? What even is there to see?
The painter looked at the already dimming skies and realized it was time to pack up. Starting with the palette and cleaning the brushes, shortly it was time to fold the easel holding the little canvas.
He looked at it for a moment before remembering the man’s eyes. His shifting irises soaked with so much admiration that in some way his gaze felt like the painters soul was getting stripped clean. That somehow, the stranger by the name Yeonjun saw something more between the colorful splashes of color and careful strokes of paint. Something even the painter didn’t indulge to see and understand.
Something sacred and kept from the world, but so brightly visible to a single obscure man.
Or maybe Beomgyu was seeing things.
He gave the painting one last glance before quickly packing it away — promising himself to hide the canvas in the deepest part of his closet and completely forgetting about the happened.
He coughed another time before running off.
Running away from the sunset, the people, the feelings he doesn’t need to feel and the man’s eyes glinting with unspoken hope.
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This followed with the second, third, fourth, and — Beomgyu lost count — time that his eyes met with the burnt umber.
Be it on a secluded street in the peak of dawn or bustling sidewalk by the street fair. His presence somehow became so vivid in the huge city of Seoul. By coincidence or fate, nearly every time Beomgyu went out to ‘recover’, he’d feel the shadow of the marveling gaze on himself. Either passing by in a hurry or stopping midway across the street to admire.
It was strange, however, it never felt like he was being stalked, it felt natural — destined. But the artist would never admit that.
However today he didn’t go out to paint, today he went to the art store to restock his oil paints. The early spring sun was high up in the sky, birds chirping, and viridian flowers near bloom. He walked to his usual store, there being already long known as a regular and “The Artist Who Paints Skies in Seoul” by the shopkeepers who also, more than once came across his painting figure somewhere in the city.
Upon pushing the door open, his eyes darted down to the beige-colored paper note on the door:
Currently, the shop is undergoing reconstruction. Please accept our deepest apologies.
We expect to welcome customers again in around 2 weeks! Until then.
Ps:
The next nearest art supply shop would be the Dream Depot store near Whimoon High School. Please do turn to them if in external need.
Forgive us again for the inconvenience.
— Yunhwabang staff.
At that moment Beomgyu remembered how the shopkeeper auntie warned him about the soon upcoming reconstruction work.
Paints be damned. He thought and took off to find the already familiar bus stop.
Although most of his life he grew up in the town of Daegu, in his last two years of high school he somehow got a scholarship in the Whimoon High School itself and without batting an eye moved in into the first dormitory that was willing to take him in. Not looking back to his relatives, so-called “friends” and nonexistent future. In the end, he only really missed his parrot.
The move happened around 2 years after his diagnosis, the decision to do so lifting a heavy weight off of his shoulders. He thought of perhaps using the opportunity of the new environment to forget.
Forget the childhood that's never gonna have an ending, forget the pressuring parents who have given up on him a long time ago, forget the friends who left the moment they found out and didn’t bother staying, forget the rumors and gossip.
Forget the memories of the bitter wind on the rooftop followed by blue and red lights and the sound of sirens.
He had high hopes of forgetting but what goes around, comes back around and a whole year later, and many thoughts of getting better, a classmate from Daegu suddenly followed after Beomgyu.
Except if Beomgyu wanted to let go of the past, the other youth had a story to tell.
Hence how Beomgyu’s last year of high school almost ended in a dropout: Rumors, gossip, simple lies.
Although, he managed to finish his studies through a lot of meltdowns and episodes. He continued to live in his little two-room apartment with a small studio — that he rented out with the saved-up money from his parents — at the end of his first year in Seoul. That’s why finding the all-too-known bus stop caused him no trouble.
The 641 bus arrived quickly after a few eager minutes of anticipation and half an hour later he'd already arrived in front of the high school gates.
He took off to search for the shop, which he too, by the way — knew quite well, taking from all the times he ran errands for, before, and after class to get supplies.
It had been 6 years since he graduated, the streets changed, people came and went and new places were built over the previous ones. It’s not like Beomgyu hadn’t walked past the familiar teenage streets in recent years, he just didn’t bother remembering what they were like in the past. However as he walked now, he came to learn that so many of the previously well-acquainted shops and cafes have been replaced with brand-new, innovative ones.
Because of the many changes, instead of the 5-minute walk, he remembered usually passing, it turned into 20 minutes of strolling in a little lost daze, all until he came across a pretty Schick shopfront, elegant clothes neatly sitting on the bodices of mannequins and with a fancy interior design peeking from behind.
From behind the mannequins he noticed the many hangers stacked with clothes, extending deeper into the store and up the staircase to the upper floor, customers walking around, talking between themselves and questioning the personnel.
Beomgyu didn’t particularly fancy expensive and extravagant clothes hence he was about to stroll off, that was until he saw him.
The artist froze in place. Why of all places had he come across him?! Why of all places was he working here?! Why today?!
Beomgyu wanted to dart his eyes away and walk past but it felt like he was stuck. Eyes only fixated on the man — yet again in clothes styled in a way that didn't make any sense whatsoever, which was odd considering this occupation — who was idly sorting between the clothes on the handlers.
But to Beomgyu it seemed like something was off. It seemed like something was missing like something that was always there when he saw Yeonjun around was now gone.
Beomgyu subconsciously stepped closer, moving to the window and trying to peek at the man's face.
He succeeded, but it felt like a heavy rock puddled in his gut.
The airy and a little cocky aura that pissed the artist off was nowhere to be found, his usual smirk off of his features like it was an expression never made before.
And then the artist looked higher.
He didn't notice before, never bothered to actually find hopeful meaning in the astonished eyes of the man whenever he saw him across the street or walking by, umber eyes not looking anywhere but the painting and the artist.
Yet now as Beomgyu looked at Yeonjun's eyes, his stance, his demeanor, — felt like looking at a completely different person.
A person lacking a sparkle. A person a little gray.
A person with irises not burning as brightly to have Beomgyu stumble over his words.
He didn't know what was the feeling he felt when seeing Yeonjun that way, but he silently hoped it wouldn't happen again. Silently hoped the man was just having a bad day and his eyes were always as bright, always as vibrant, and full of marvel in the same way the artist got used to remembering.
With slow, heavy steps, Beomgyu collected himself, and avoiding the heaviness in his chest he managed to walk past the boutique not sparing it another glance.
Meanwhile, Yeonjun was considered to be having a good, normal, greyscale day.
He looked up when he felt a pair of eyes on himself but only managed to catch half a head of long dark hair already hiding behind the porcelain wall.
The little warmth in his chest from feeling a familiar gaze instantly died down and he returned to mindlessly sorting the new arrivals and preparing for a long, gruesome family dinner awaiting him that evening.
⁺
The next thing Yeonjun knew was that he hadn’t noticed the artisan in weeks.
Albeit after the unexpected encounter, Beomgyu tried to avoid his usual ‘to-paint-on streets’. That way avoiding the raven-haired man. Although fortunately or not, following the first week of avoiding he got into another deep, long-lasting ‘episode’ for reasons he would rather not think about.
While Yeonjun himself became busy with family affairs. Beomgyu was locked up in his 4 suffocating walls, whilst Yeonjun proceeded with his monotonous life with smiles not fully reaching his eyes.