Work Text:
It was never a doubt in his mind that running away from deep scars and blooming aconites would have its disadvantages in time.
There were many things he could have unpacked if he wanted to; seeing himself off at a therapist's office and taking in the baby blues and purples that painted the walls in an effort to calm the victims of mental abrasions. The young artist could have reconnected with his siblings, or even his mother— he could have chosen any other way to heal than simply painting away at his sorrows. The deep lacerations that held his mind in a prison of melancholic memories.
Hwiyoung's fingers were crafted from magnificence and marvelous aptitude. He was a quiet, observational man with little interest in much of the outside world. His portfolio boasted years and years of artistic experience— the constant gigs at large studios and the endless freelance work requested in his emails were not short of corporate nightmares. Work. Work and more work— anything to distract him from the life he once lived.
He preferred his acrylic paints. He preferred drawing people, sitting at parks and sketching those who threw seeds at the pigeons, sticking around in coffee shops to people-watch the couple dates, and silently observing the way in which human interaction existed upon him. He had graduated with a degree in fine arts and a minor in anthropology. A humble wallflower, there to record the wonders of human nature through a pen and a spare piece of paper.
So when a boisterous, clumsy, and friendly man with long, black hair stumbled upon his co-taught figure drawing course on Valentine's Day, his rock walls were crushed down into utter rubble and dirt. In that moment, Hwiyoung swore his next muse was presented to him on a silver platter.
The stranger had sat himself right next to the quiet, lanky man. He was rapidly peeling off a medical scrub of sorts, light stains burrowed into each sleeve. It was brave of him to say the least: crashing a party of quiet artists was a bold move. Hwiyoung didn’t mind it one bit, enjoying the refreshing presence of an intriguing individual in his wake.
“God. Tough crowd,” the boy had whispered, leaning far too close into Hwiyoung’s personal space. The painter only cleared his throat.
“Are you calling my students uptight?”
The boy looked back in shock, embarrassed that he had uttered such words to the teacher in question. He covered his mouth in a way that made Hwiyoung stifle a giggle.
“I am…so sorry. I had no idea–”
“No worries. You’re right, anyway. It gets a little bland in here sometimes. But how nice to see a new face.”
Taeyang gushed, immediately relieved that Hwiyoung’s presence was nowhere near as scary as it had appeared. He crossed his leg over the other and directed his attention at his newfound teacher-friend.
“So! What’s your name?”
“Hwiyoung. This is my figure drawing course. I assume…I assume you’re a new artist?” He was careful with his words.
“Yup! I’m actually a vet-tech…ah…ignore the uniform— I didn’t have time to change. Lately, I’ve been trying to put myself out there more…maybe find an activity that I don’t suck at.”
“So you came straight to a level three figure drawing course?”
Taeyang was shocked again, blinking as if Hwiyoung had an answer to his confusion.
“Level…three?? Wait–” Taeyang took a minute to assess his surroundings. He browsed through the silent artists warming up with brief sketches, waiting for the class to begin. He swallowed.
“This…is not what I thought it was.”
Hwiyoung lifted an eyebrow. “Where did you think you were?”
“Abstract art. Clearly, I fucked up.”
Hwiyoung only laughed, shaking his head.
“Abstract is next door. But if you will, stay here for the experience. You’ll get to see some wonderful artists at work.”
“Oh! I’d love to!”
So it had started: the unorthodox friendship between an exuberant, animal-loving man and his dark, despondent companion. In the beginning, Hwiyoung was too frightened to say more than a few sentences— instead letting Taeyang roll stories off his tongue for hours and hours while Hwiyoung filled sketchbooks with lines of the lively man. Earning trust was difficult— Hwiyoung's past begged to be ignored at every step of his professional career. Thankfully, Taeyang never asked about it. The artist was lucky, to say the least. He hadn't felt such serenity before Taeyang's presence crashed through his built up rows of brick and mortar. Art was supposed to be his quiet place. But somehow, Taeyang's colorful world of jubilation was an antidote to the long years of crestfallen events.
He had lived through it all: the heartbreak of falling in love with an art professor, the disowning of his parents after revealing his career choice, and the loss of a close friend. In the end, it seemed that no human could heal him more than the ones he drew upon the paper. But his muse…his muse was there to cast rays upon his schedules and sprout flowers within his heart. He was there to provide smiles when there were rainy days and warm hugs when the weather called for deep snow. After only a few weeks of knowing each other, Taeyang had been blown away by Hwiyoung’s endless talent. He had commissioned a simple art piece: a portrait of Taeyang’s contemporary dance performance.
Enthralling was too short of a description. Hwiyoung had run his eyes over the photo a million times. The see-through, flowy, black-laced outfit that revealed a toned stomach. The extension of every limb, energy that flowed between each finger like it tingled with electricity. The expression of his face: the desperation in his eyes, the parting of his lips, the sweat that trickled off his forehead.
To say that he was in love was an understatement. In love with the endless ramblings of dance, the jovial attitude, the theatric singing in the car. In love with the way in which Taeyang could talk for hours and fill Hwiyoung’s space with anecdotes of adventures he could vicariously live through. In love with the way the veterinarian would stare at him like he was the most talented artist in the world, splashing each easel with remnants of acrylic. In love with the way that Taeyang let him point out every muscle in his hands, drawing the anatomy over and over again until they were both dozing off in bed. In love with all the things that brought back hues of rainbows into his life.
Their years had progressed within minutes, it seemed. Hwiyoung couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed so profusely. Or the last time he could feel comfortable in another presence, enjoying even the silent moments shared together. At some point, he had opened up about his past struggles and the murkiness that paraded around in his heart like the bubonic plague. Taeyang was no stranger to dejection, either; he had given up his original dream of becoming a dancer and simply went in a different direction. Though he enjoyed his job, a part of him longed for the stage lights and audience of gleaming eyes. They could chat for days— even if Taeyang spoke for the most of it.
Hwiyoung had given his entire soul to the portrait. He wouldn’t even let his muse look at it for a second— it had been blocked off in the back room of his apartment, letting only the sunlight peek at the solid lines of paint. No matter how many times Taeyang pouted and begged to see the work, Hwiyoung would only pet his head and smile. He'd whisper, "patience, Taeyangie."
It was such a privilege that another Valentines Day had come around with them together. That Hwiyoung had managed to sustain such a deep friendship for a so long— even beginning to heal some of his own flaws with his muse’s presence. He had planned everything to be perfect: the portrait was ready and glossed, his best suit was tailored, his hair was permed and pretty (in a half-up, half-down style that Taeyang had encouraged a million times), and his mind was settled.
"It's ethereal," Taeyang's voice was shaky and a little bit sullen.
He had entered the apartment with such glee; the change in tempo gave the painter quite the scare. But he was only admiring the lines with such adoration, tracing sparkling eyes over each gradient and each stroke. He could cry at every inhale, loving the way in which his own self stared back at him with such fervor, telling the story of love through movements. He ghosted fingers upon the portrait, lost for any words.
"You...like it?" Hwiyoung's voice didn't reach higher than a few octaves. He watched his muse carefully, following the way in which his eyes darted back and forth. The silence was eating him from the inside out.
"One of these days...one of these days Hwi...you'll understand why I chose you to draw me. This…it's everything to me...I'm no artist, so I could never put into words how much I love it. But I'm sure you could."
Taeyang's glistening eyes never left the portrait. Hwiyoung was teeming with happiness, the nervousness and anxiety had dissipated as soon as Taeyang offered a bright smile. The painting was surrounded by a circle of red roses and peonies, decorating the room with such wonderful fragrances. Dance was Taeyang's muse, and Taeyang was Hwiyoung's muse. He'd never dare miss a single feature of his beloved afflatus.
Oh how he adored the smiles and the gentle giggles. Melodic harmonies that he wanted to record and plaster onto a brand new canvas, painting in the electrifying sounds of happiness and love. He tilted his head in awe, wondering if he could snapshot the moment of tenderness and extend that image long enough to perfectly sketch onto a piece of paper.
"My painter...my artist," Taeyang whispered, moving closer to an enthralled Hwiyoung. Hearts skipped as the dancer glanced down at their distanced hands, both hanging with uncertainty. He grasped with hesitant fingers, testing the waters with gentleness.
"Would you draw me for the rest of my life if I asked you to?" The question came as a shock— Hwiyoung felt his chest burst with orchids and gardenias. He could capture that moment in a portrait later, detailing the very moment in which a grandeur garden grew upon his heart.
"I would give up heaven to do so."
Taeyang smiled, closing the gap between their bodies and placing a free hand on Hwiyoung's burning cheeks, a little too much blush rubbed into them. He attempted to blend the hues away before marking them with light kisses dipped in lip gloss. Hwiyoung could only lean in, the physical affection a product of months of pining and muddled feelings of confusing attraction. Hwiyoung was happy— for he could have never made the first move. He could have drawn the confidence he needed, but never executed it. But in that moment, he decided that it was the only time he could indulge in the fantasies that plagued his portfolios.
Hwiyoung kissed his muse. He kissed him until the blush somehow made its way to his lover, making Taeyang giggle about the rosiness that dotted his nose. They kissed in front of the painting of Taeyang's extended limbs and sequenced outfit. They kissed right there in Hwiyoung's studio, where they had first learned the basics of one another. They kissed in Hwiyoung's dreams, too. Where everything was healed, where everything was covered in watercolor and cool tones.
They kissed, and Hwiyoung made sure to color in the details later.
“Happy Valentine's Day, my muse.”