⋇⊶⊰𝄞⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰𝄞⊱⊷⋇

Time feels like an indistinct haze. It was a lure, a moment of levity that somehow draws one's mind into a blank. Almost as if the windows were fogged after a cold rain, leaving the interior of the car warm, unable to see through the blur of warmth.

Seonghwa was glued into this routine, one that he made out of practicality and reassurance, trying to avoid the onslaught of calls and texts that came with doctor's appointments and updates from hospice nurses. He knew what was coming, he could sense it. He just didn't have the will to think about it.

He visited his mother, like he promised, not yet bringing a painting, but assuring her that he'd bring one soon. The one he had painted late into the evening just over a week and a half ago, was a disappointment more than anything else. He wanted to bring her something joyous, something that would make her smile, not frown and cause her to be upset. His inner self was begging to be heard, but he couldn't listen to the voices. He was purposely ignoring them, refusing to glance in the mirror and keeping his head down, perfecting his speeches for every morning's lecture, grading homework and assessments, moving through his practiced chaos with the slur of coffee.

He didn't hate his job, he rather loved it. But, with the lack of painting that he has done, he can see how his own lack of passion was bleeding out onto the students, even if it had only been a few days of classes. They had yet to paint their own yet, anyway, which gave Seonghwa a little more time to interpret something of his own, but time was ticking, and beyond that haze of smog, he could barely tell if he needed to step forward or fear the trip into the unknown.

Hongjoong and Wooyoung visited every day, bringing lunch or coffee by since Seonghwa rather worked himself to near-death, reading every word that every student wrote, grading their sketchbooks and giving criticism where need be, straining his eyes so much that blinking too long began to feel like a pull towards slumber.

Hongjoong, in particular, seemed worried the more the days grew long. Seonghwa was glued to his desk, typing away on his laptop with a stack of sketchbooks to his left, a few folders on his right, an abandoned mug of coffee somewhere in between, leaving him with his hair tied back, glasses on his nose, and an unbearable look of exhaustion creeping in beneath his eyes. He was drowning in his work, but not in a way that he dreaded it. He was doing it all because it felt to be all he knew, all he rather craved, really. It was a distraction against the current of everything else, and that was what he longed to have.

He wasn't necessarily failing to take care of himself. He still showered, ate regularly, took an hour before bed to clean, watch a movie, write in his journal; do something. He still valued his own time amongst everything else, and that wouldn't change, even if everything else was.

"You're doing it again," Hongjoong would muse, almost every single day around noon, leaning against Seonghwa's door frame. "You're glued into your chair, grading these papers as if they can't wait more than a couple minutes."

"If I get them done now, I can relax later," Seonghwa would muse back, adjusting his glasses before turning to glance at Hongjoong. "Besides, I have you and Wooyoung to thank for my persistence. You're both work-a-holics, too, you know. I watched the two of you prepare your syllabus over coffee, remember?"

"You're not wrong," Hongjoong mused back, offering a smile that made Seonghwa's heart whir.

"I know I'm not," Seonghwa jested right back, turning to glance at his paperwork once more. "Don't worry, Professor Joong–" Seonghwa pauses, smiling slightly to himself. "We'll go out on a date soon enough."

Hongjoong was rendered nearly speechless since then, which was two days ago, leaving the two dancing around the idea of going somewhere. . . . together. . . alone.

It wasn't that they didn't want to; truly Seonghwa did. But, he just never had the chance. Between forcing himself to paint and sketch, along with visits to his mother's house, grading and cleaning, while also prioritizing himself, he found very little time to actually indulge in such a request. He knew Hongjoong had some sort of fondness towards him, and he rather enjoyed it. It was cute, just like that of the male's smile and curious glint in his deeply-hued eyes. Seonghwa was fond of him too, even if he felt that these feelings also served to be some sort of a distraction from his own grueling reality.

Now, it was nearing the end of the school day, leaving Seonghwa standing in the middle of his room, leaning against one of the desks, staring at the canvas he had been busying himself with for the last hour. All of his students had left a while ago, leaving him alone and trapped within this space, occupying negative thoughts about this entire painting that he couldn't seem to place effort into.

It's not that he didn't want to paint, he rather just had no idea what he was aiming for. A landscape? A portrait? Something two-dimensional? Something overly detailed? He didn't know. He was just standing there, paintbrush in hand, an array of paints and brushes scattered against his desk, the easel laughing at him as it stared right back, holding an empty canvas that was riddled with barren secrets. It felt like it was gawking at him, filled with judgment and obscene remarks, all labeling Seonghwa as the ideals that he never wanted to place over himself, yet felt screamed back at him with every passing glance in the mirror.

In a way, the canvas felt to be exactly that; a mirror. He was pulling all of his internal thoughts and emotions, lathering the canvas with everything that spewed itself from his fingertips, soaking his thoughts and his heart with things that felt too heavy to carry. He knew he could swallow it all, harbor it for a time where he was alone in his room, but even now, watching as this blank canvas glared right back at him, he begins to wonder if he was avoiding his mirror for the simple reason of fear, or just not knowing who would be looking right back at him.

Would it be the failure of a son he felt to be? The one who was too weak to remain around his mother's side despite her health? Or, was he going to see the person he deemed to be too dismissive, abandoning everything he loved all because he was feeling everything stronger than he usually had? He hadn't been incredibly sensitive before, but now, every single issue and piece of bad news nearly brought him to his knees, causing him to buckle towards the ground, scattering the pieces of his broken heart quicker than he could ever think to reattach them.

"You look incredibly focused," Hongjoong mutters out suddenly, causing Seonghwa to flinch, his eyes darting towards the door frame, watching as Hongjoong smiles.

"I am– I just–" Seonghwa sighs, rolling his eyes. "My mind is a mess, and I can't get it to focus on this damn painting."

"Well," Hongjoong begins, walking further into the room, moving so he could glance at the canvas better. "What inspires you the most?"

Fear. Negativity. Anyone but myself.

"I. . . don't know, anymore," Seonghwa admits, twirling the paintbrush between two of his fingers as he leans against the desk, his eyes nearly glued to the canvas. "I haven't been able to paint anything in months, and the one time I did it was just. . . filled with empty feelings. It means nothing to me. I can't even bear to look at it."

Hongjoong nods, his gaze flicking between Seonghwa and the barren canvas before he speaks again, keeping his tone light. "Can I see it?"

Seonghwa pauses, turning towards Hongjoong with a look of curiosity and slight concern, wondering why he'd really ever want to take interest in something so abysmal.

"Really?" Seonghwa asks, his disbelief audible. "You want to see it?"

"Yeah, if that's. . . not too intrusive, or anything."

"No, no, it's not, I just–" Seonghwa smiles briefly before he sighs, leaning away from the desk, strolling towards his own, placing his paintbrush down as he speaks. "Didn't expect you to say that."

"I'm full of surprises, what can I say?" Hongjoong adds, trying to add some sort of buoyant levity into the conversation that Seonghwa was subtly grateful for. He didn't mean to be so down, so depressing, but he really couldn't help it considering the state of mind he was in.

But, he relents. He walks through his lines of desks before making his way towards the closet in the back of the room, opening the door and flicking the light on, revealing a slightly cluttered, yet somehow organized, storage closet, laden with supplies that he had brought from his own studio. He wanted to buy newer things as well, but he supposed that since he wasn't using any of it, it would serve a better purpose here, for those who truly wanted to use them.

He shuffles through the mound of books, canvases, trays of new paint bottles and empty cardboard boxes, reaching for the canvas that was tucked away into the corner, nestled behind a few other primed, yet unused canvases.

He curls his fingers around the top of the wooden base, pulling it out carefully, his eyes wandering down the line of each paint stroke, each detail, bringing him back to that night from days ago. He had painted this with the help of Hongjoong's piano playing, allowing the music to guide him in releasing some of the tension built into his shoulders, though, now that the tension came back, he wasn't really sure if it'd ever leave again. It felt like a permanent resident, a forever companion in his everyday life, but what could he do? Complain? Well– maybe.

He sighs as he walks back through the closet, turning off the light before stepping back out into his classroom, tugging the door closed gently behind him before walking back through the desks, the canvas held lightly between his fingers, almost in a manner that felt too fragile. Was he worried? Partially. He didn't know what Hongjoong would think of this painting, especially not one of this depressive caliber, but he just had to hope that he'd see nothing more than a blur of blues and purples, deepened by the haze of black, hopefully missing the fact that this was a self-study in a way that Seonghwa didn't properly realize.

"Here," Seonghwa says, handing the painting over, watching as Hongjoong meets his gaze, almost hesitant before reaching out, taking the painting gently into his grasp. He holds the canvas out before him, his gaze tilting down towards the painting before his brows pinch together, his eyes flicking about with curious, yet deep intent, almost as if he was trying to understand every single facet of this image.

"It's nothing special," Seonghwa comments, rolling his eyes. He folds his arms against himself, acting like some sort of physical shield, trying to place distance between himself and a place of judgment. Though, the moment Hongjoong's eyes flick upwards, he finds nothing of the sort. His eyes were so deeply hued, flickering and glimmering with a lace of understanding and sorrow, mingled with the curve of concern. Seonghwa can't stand it.

Whether it was the understanding he was being met with or the tide of emotions that seemed to be pouring out of the male wordlessly, it caused Seonghwa to look away, his jaw tightening, unsure of if he was prepared to hear whatever words Hongjoong was bracing himself to say.

"Seonghwa," he begins, his gaze flicking back down to the canvas, shaking his head. "I'm not an artist, and I'm not great at interpreting things, but can I ask what drove you to paint this?"

Seonghwa feels the swell of guilt linger on his tongue, unsure if he should even tell the truth. Your music made me paint something incredibly self-deprecating and sad. How does that make you feel?

"I just–" Seonghwa shrugs. "I was holding a lot in. I don't know how to explain it."

"You can try," Hongjoong mutters softly, lowering the canvas, yet still holding it in one of his hands. "I'm here to listen."

Seonghwa allows himself to be quiet for a moment before he sighs, his eyes fluttering closed, memories swelling over the bridge of his tongue as he sits there, waiting for the confidence to simply just be honest. He didn't want to ruin this. . . friendship, or whatever it was, with Hongjoong. Their flirting, their forming bond and their banter; he didn't want any of it to go away. In a way. . . he felt like he needed it. He needed these people around him, almost in a mask of distraction away from the things that pulled him away from this city and this university, clawing at him to drag him back into the pit of hell. But, he supposes, how can I get closer to him if all I do is shut him out?

"I heard you playing," Seonghwa mutters, opening his eyes again, turning to glance at the painting. "It was a few days ago, before classes began. I was here late, and I heard you playing the piano. It was the softest, sweetest melody, and I– I don't know. It brought something out in me that feels hard to explain."

Hongjoong is quiet, so Seonghwa keeps talking.

"Motivation comes hard for me, and for a long time, like you saw me just a bit ago, I will sit and stare at a canvas until I put a hole through it or toss it back into the storage closet, giving up before moving on, pretending that I'm not a failure and that I'm just. . . tired." Seonghwa tears his gaze away, swallowing quietly, letting the words break themselves free of their confines, wandering around in the space between himself and Hongjoong, no longer powerful enough to keep them beneath the tide of a facade. "There's a lot happening at home, and I feel myself tethered in two directions. Life is pulling me back and forth, but now, I've begun to feel like I'm being pulled completely in half. This balance, this cycle of self-torment. . . it's all I've known. I'm running away from my problems in the hope that I won't drown in them, but this painting, this self-painted image. . . it's a glimpse at how I see myself. These paintings are like mirrors into my soul, and I guess my heart was tired of staying silent that night."

"I wouldn't have guessed all of that," Hongjoong expresses earnestly, keeping his tone light, yet quiet. "You're holding on to a lot of things, aren't you?"

"More than I'd like to admit," Seonghwa replies, turning his gaze back towards Hongjoong.

"Well, I am curious to know how my piano playing evoked this kind of reaction, but. . . I am glad you painted, Seonghwa. I think in doing this, it's a way you can cope without needing to use words. It might just be the thing you need to keep you afloat."

"Do you think so?" Seonghwa asks, a flicker of something softer mingling with his own sense of dread, a few pounds of the weight lifting off of his shoulders. It was almost as if in talking about it, in hearing a wave of acknowledgement, relief simply took over, finally feeling as if he released a breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

"Whatever is going on, I'm sure it's difficult, Seonghwa," Hongjoong begins, slowly beginning to hand the canvas back over. "I can't help but feel like this painting is a plea for help. I'm always here to listen, you know. No matter the time or circumstance."

"Maybe it is an outcry, or maybe it's just a sad painting," Seonghwa says as he takes the painting from Hongjoong, holding it delicately between his fingers. "I don't know. I won't know until I get through all of this."

"Well," Hongjoong says with a breath, catching Seonghwa's gaze with his own. "If I can help with anything, I'd like to."

"You don't have to. Really," Seonghwa says, waving his hand, but Hongjoong smiles.

"I want to, actually–" Hongjoong leans a fraction closer, his smile radiant and calming. "Let me take you somewhere at the end of our class day tomorrow. Somewhere away from the noise so we can just enjoy the quiet."

"You really don't have to–"

"I know," Hongjoong replies softly, reaching out hesitantly, resting a hand over top of the hand that Seonghwa was holding his painting with. "But I always go to this place because I need my own peace of mind. It's kind of like a ritual, at this point, but. . . it's lonely. I'd rather enjoy it with you, if that's okay."

Seonghwa feels a flood of warmth reach the sill of his cheeks, causing him to glance away, the shy curl of a smile tugging at his lips. He couldn't imagine someone like Hongjoong wanting to spend time with him outside of work, especially given the negativity radiating off of him like a heater, but for some reason, he was still electing to choose Seonghwa, to stand by him through the circumstances of his sadness.

"Yeah," Seonghwa says, delicately brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear, still feeling the warmth from Hongjoong's hand on his own. "That sounds lovely. Really lovely."

"Then it's settled," Hongjoong chipperly replies, his smile growing, causing Seonghwa's heart to flutter. "I'll come by to grab you after our last classes for the day and we'll go, okay?"

"Okay," Seonghwa replies, smiling small. Hongjoong offers a nod, his smile speaking volumes of his enthusiasm, though gentle and complex in its beauty, stirring Seonghwa's heart with a million different emotions.

Hongjoong leaves, his steps echoing in the quiet classroom before he turns down the hall, disappearing into the muffled chaos of other professors moving about and chatting away, unaware of the confusion and longing swirling in the pit of Seonghwa's stomach. He glances down at the painting in his hands before returning his gaze to his barren canvas, hoping that the tide of his turmoil would dissipate eventually.

⋇⊶⊰𝄞⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰𝄞⊱⊷⋇

The day passes, along with the evening, tumbling into a quaint morning that was filled with the song of passing birds and the quiet scribbling of pencils against paper. Seonghwa sits at his desk, listening as his students move into the depths of their assignment, casting the room in a sense of stillness, almost as if the moment was nearly frozen in time. Seonghwa glances at the clock, spotting nearly ten minutes left of the block, and decidedly chooses to opt out of his regime, just for today. Today was special after all, he had something to look forward to; rather, someone he looked forward to seeing.

"Alright," Seonghwa announces to his students, watching as they all glance upwards, their pencils pausing. "Remember your sketchbook assignments for Monday. As for now, you all can leave early. Start your weekend fresh; the weather will be lovely."

A slur of mumbles echoes across the room, all laden with different threads of gratitude as they begin to hurriedly pack their belongings. Seonghwa smiles, rising from his chair as he rounds his desk, planting his palms against it as he leans backwards carefully. He watches his students, listening to the murmurs of excitement and chatter as their belongings rustle about. Bags being unzipped, folders and notebooks being shoved inside their bags, laptops being shut, drinks and snacks being stored away. Seonghwa remembered a time when he was overly eager, rushing through his classes to escape to a beautiful weekend, looking forward to strolling through the park, sketching and painting anything he could find. A pond, a group of ducks, wildflowers, or even the haze of a lowering sun, colored in fascinating hues that seemed to entrance him even further. He wanted these students to have a taste of that; to be free of the confines of this college and to try and enjoy the beauty that was outside, even if he himself couldn't yet do that anymore. Your younger years weren't supposed to be confined within four walls, studying and working a meaningless nine to five, struggling to even live while missing out on the best parts of life.

Especially with aspiring artists laying before him, he wanted them to step even further out into the outdoors, to continue chasing their passion, avoiding the long, tumultuous path that he himself had trekked, abandoning everything he loved for the sake of fear. He wanted them to be better than him, even if just by a fraction.

He watches as they scamper out of his room early, talking in bounds with one another about anything and everything, apparently. He smiles again, leaning away from his desk as the remnants of his class disappear beyond the door, leaving his room still yet again, quiet and lonely, abandoning him with the waltzing tangle of his thoughts that couldn't seem to sit still. He pushes them aside, at least, just for the moment, reaching for his phone as he eyes the time. Hongjoong should be free of his class in twenty minutes, leaving Seonghwa time to calm his mind, to gather his bearings, to try and comprehend how someone like Hongjoong placed so much interest in someone like him.

Strolling out of the room, he peeks into Wooyoung's casually, catching sight of San sitting in Wooyoung's chair as the younger male trekked around with something in his hand, something that looked like a pen or a pencil, gesturing wildly as he spoke in ups and downs about something he had been passionate about. San was smiling at him warmly, radiating a love so strong that Seonghwa nearly melted at the sight of it. He longed for something like that, to be loved in a fashion where he no longer feared to truly just be who he was without the paranoia that came with a raise of a hand or abusive words. But, as he lingers, Wooyoung spins around, pointing at the door, spotting Seonghwa with a mischievous grin.

"You, my friend, have spotted me in the midst of my greatest lecture yet. Care to join?"

"And ruin the fun?" Seonghwa says teasingly, rolling his eyes. "Oh, I'd never wish to impose."

"You'd only add to it, Hwa." Wooyoung says with a growing smile, using his free hand to gesture towards San. "He's only here because he has no choice. He has to listen to me, or else he sleeps on the couch."

"Rude," San mutters, leaving Wooyoung to face him, sticking his tongue out playfully.

"What are you passionately discussing, anyway?" Seonghwa asks, leaning against the doorframe into Wooyoung's classroom, watching as the male bounds closer, excitement coursing through him.

"I want to plan a getaway for all of us. We all get a holiday break that's long enough to celebrate Christmas in a few months, but I think it would be nice if we went somewhere else for a night or two."

"A getaway, huh?" Seonghwa muses, watching as Wooyoung nods.

"You can come, if you want." Wooyoung brushes his hair behind his ear, continuing to talk lightly. "The rest of the group is coming, too. Yunho, Mingi, Yeosang, Jongho, Hongjoong, probably–"

"I wouldn't wish to impose." Seonghwa watches as Wooyoung smiles and shakes his head.

"You're as much a part of this group as any of us are. You should come. It could do you some good, don't you think?"

Seonghwa sighs, glancing down as he weighs the options internally. It would be nice, ideally, to leave the city behind, to seek something calmer, something more serene. But the tether he feels, the one binding him close to his mother and to that of his childhood home prevents him from answering, leaving his lips sealed and his response to die in the back of his throat. He didn't want to disappoint his new friends by denying a trip with them, but with his mother's illness, with the risk of leaving and coming home to–. . . he just can't.

"I don't know, Wooyoung."

"Well, think about it," he replies, smiling softly. "There's plenty of time to decide. Besides, we haven't even placed a date, or picked a place to go to. You've got time."

"I appreciate it," Seonghwa murmurs, offering a smile back. "I'll let you get back to gallivanting about. I've got to get ready for some after class plans."

"Oh, so I've heard," Wooyoung teases, leaning closer. "A date, huh?"

"It's not a date," Seonghwa tries to defend, but Wooyoung rolls his eyes.

"Sure it's not," Wooyoung replies coyly, raising a brow. "Why are you so flustered, then?"

Seonghwa's eyes widened, the familiar feeling of a flush crawling onto his neck and cheeks, causing him to shake his head, but before the words could even dare to leave his lips, Wooyoung was already giggling, moving back into his room and towards San.

"I'm just kidding. Enjoy your time with Joong," Wooyoung says as he turns around, pointing at Seonghwa once more with his pencil. "But, remember this: Hongjoong never meets with any of us alone and offers to take us to his secret spot. Just a thought."

Seonghwa nods, unable to offer a response as Wooyoung turns around, putting his attention back on his doting boyfriend, leaving the elder to his thoughts, swirling around in an unkempt manner that only confuses him further.

He begins his trek back down the hall, his steps beginning to slow as he walks past Hongjoong's room, noticing the door left ajar, offering a glance into the world that the male entranced himself into. There was music playing, a lovely melody that made Seonghwa's heart whir. He watches as Hongjoong continues to play, completely in a trance as his fingers move against the piano keys, captivating not only his entire class, but Seonghwa too, unknowingly. It was like a dance, a wonderful tango that was led and met with a congruent following, connecting not only his heart to his music, but his soul, bleeding himself dry as he poured his everything into this melodic dance, following the beat of his heart without bothering to hesitate.

Seonghwa feels his heart quicken, the flush returning to his cheeks, standing there with his lips slightly parted, taking in everything that Hongjoong was in this moment. He was carefree, passionate, overly joyous in performing such a song. Hongjoong was radiating something familiar, something that once more called to Seonghwa like a wolf howling out into the night, crying at the moon in a plea for reassurance. His heart was aching and twisting all at once, yearning to understand, while also longing to close the distance, spurring him closer and closer as his hand reached for the door knob of the door, yet paused. He looks down, snapping himself out of it, forming his outstretched hand into a soft fist, knowing that he shouldn't disturb Hongjoong's class.

"You're staring," a voice whispers from behind him, causing Seonghwa to whip his head around, listening as Wooyoung begins to laugh quietly.

"No–!"

"Yeah you are," Wooyoung teases, biting his lower lip. "It's alright. I stare at Sannie like that all the time."

"I'm not in love with him, Wooyoung."

"I didn't say that–" Wooyoung says, raising a brow. "Why'd you think I would ever assume that?"

"I– wasn't it. . . implied?"

"No," Wooyoung says with a light chuckle. "But, hey! You said it, not me."

Seonghwa sighs as he rolls his eyes, watching as Wooyoung begins to walk away with a wave. "Have fun on your date!"

"It's not a date–!" Seonghwa whisper-yells, only to feel another presence behind him.

"It's better to just let him tease you, because you won't win in an argument with him," San comments, slowly beginning to follow after his partner. "I'll reprimand him later, don't worry."

Seonghwa offers San a smile as the male wanders after his partner, who was yelling something further down the hall. Brushing a hand through his hair, he glances back into Hongjoong's room, listening to the faint trickles of the melody as the song slows, coming to a subtle, beautiful ending. He smiles, genuinely smiles, turning back towards his room to await Hongjoong's arrival.

He wasn't sure if this was a date, or something far less romantic. But, whatever it was, the faint, but familiar, trickles of excitement wandered across his skin, allowing him to glance at the abandoned canvas within the corner of his room, no longer bothered by its emptiness.

⋇⊶⊰𝄞⊱⊷⋇ ⋇⊶⊰𝄞⊱⊷⋇