YOONGI had passed by to pick up a package that he couldn't ship to his own apartment for reasons Jeongguk has come to respect by now. In fact, he no longer asks any questions, just simply calls when a package appears at his door with Yoongi's name on and waits for him to arrive. Much like today.

The ebony haired male perches on Jeongguk's couch, cardboard box unpacked and messily refilled with all of the stuff he'd already viewed.

His forearm is covered in soft pastel colours, pigments simple yet eye-catching, and, further up, a blood red shade that Jeongguk thinks will look flawless on his lips.

He's glad to see his friend content with his purchases, and he has a lot of thoughts on them, but their conversation hadn't addressed Yoongi's growing makeup collection once. No, their topic had strictly been set on the boy from last night and the only piece of artwork Jeongguk has completed in two and a half months.

"This drawing is not what I meant, though. You know that." Yoongi speaks, eyes focused on the shiny tip of his new lipstick. He flicks his attention towards Jeongguk for only a second, but that is enough time for the younger to quirk his head ever so slightly, perplexed as to what the charcoal haired man could possibly mean.

Yoongi rolls his eyes disinterestedly, tossing a small pile of paper over to Jeongguk who picks it up with caution, face paling at the sight.

Oh, God. He remembers these. How could he forget?

The anatomy is accurate, revised, studied carefully. Practiced over and over on countless sleepless nights that saw Jeongguk with nothing but a few polished drawings that people turned their noses up at.

He had loved each one, once.

He had looked upon them with nothing but pure contempt and felt pride in the way he had captured the human body. But now the thought of these pieces only makes him wish he'd put more time into something else.

"It's not a failing industry, Jeongguk-ah. You'll find somewhere to share it— sell it. It'll come. But this is what you need to continue to do." Yoongi speaks wisely, holding up his phone and applying his newly bought lipstick in a manner that beseeched Jeongguk's attention as he considered his words. "Please. Don't censor yourself because he didn't like it."

Jeongguk flinches. His face bitters at the brief mention. Yoongi doesn't notice, but he doesn't push it any further, shutting his phone screen off and smacking his lips together in an obscene manner. He then gets up, deciding he's said his piece, got what he came for, and looks cute enough to make his exit, leaving Jeongguk to go over his options once more.

Yoongi has faith. Utmost faith. He knows Jeongguk'll return to his old art— that he won't give up on himself.

And soon the elder is gone, the only trace of his being there are the drawings in Jeongguk's lap. Jeongguk, who has no clue how his friend had managed to obtain these, much less save them for all these years, but regardless, he traces his fingers over the worn lines and lets slip a sigh. What to do?

He knows he could say yes to his desires, find a random picture on the internet and try to capture it, but he can't work like that. His inspiration lingers in the most unreachable of places. Half of the time, he'll go months with no work, living off of the lowest possible income and going many hours on an empty stomach because of it.

So by now, he's somewhat desperate for an outlet— something to tell him that he's still doing what he's meant to be doing. Doing what he loves, because honestly sometimes he just feels so lost. Regrets art. Regrets going to school for it. Regrets not being good at something more conventional.

But numbers all got mixed up when he was in math class, he can't articulate a prose as well as others, and he has a terrible memory, but give him a pencil and a sheet of paper and he'll blow you away.

It's a curse, he's sure, that his talent must be so exclusively subjective. You can think he's good at art, but that doesn't mean you'll give him any money for it. Not at all. It's not reliable. Not at this stage.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, eyes drawing back to the sketch of the boy from the night before. It's beautiful. It's realistic. He's proud of something again. He wonders if there are any more pictures of him he could copy on instagram— or maybe he's going live again.

Jeongguk soon finds himself needing to know, fingers itching to pick up his phone and click on that same link.

It hasn't crossed his mind yet that Yoongi has sent him this account in order to influence his old art. So when he reads the name, sees the description, sees the content~

He's breathless; completely done with words as he takes it all in. Every inch. The model is lewd at best, taking no prisoners with his stunning beauty. It's such a great contrast from the live he'd seen last night. The man in that live had seemed so lost and sweet. Nothing like this.

Jeongguk scrolls and scrolls after his discovery, every last picture heightening his senses, enriching them. He's got this vivid mental picture of every inch of the man's smooth skin built up, teasing his mind, tugging at his every wish for what Yoongi had expected— for what was intended for him with this account from the very beginning.

His forefinger twitches against his leg and he realises he's been gnawing at his lip this whole time. He feels that urge aching at his joints to let himself loose on a sheet of paper. To get all of this appreciation and wonder out of his head and onto some paper before it explodes. Wants to recite his findings with a pencil. Revive it. Make it timeless.

So he does.

He spends hours. Any picture his eyes linger on for more than a few seconds, he tries to copy it.

They're just sketches for now. Just outlines— still blank, waiting for life to be breathed into them. Waiting for someone to touch them with tone and shading, add some depth, sculpt the surface to make them feel real. To make them as breathtaking as the model they're taken from.

He doesn't feel dirty. Not when he's doing this. Doesn't feel dirty when he pins them up on his wall. Three sketches. They're coming along nicely, and he wants to finish them all now while he's in his zone, but he can't bring himself to. No, not now. He has one. One prized piece he wants to perfect first, make himself proud.

It's a copy of one of the oldest pictures on the account. It's so amateur and realistic— it's beautiful, in the least perverted way, of course. Or, at least, he hopes so. He hopes this isn't perverted. Although, he supposes that he's only admiring 'Tae's body. Making a tribute to it, if you will. He's not jacking off to it like everyone else lurking on the account is.

Or maybe it's just as bad, he doesn't know. Doesn't really care at this point. His eyes are alive with passion and meaning. He can feel it in his bones: this is it. This is the one. The one that'll bring it back. The one that will fix this rut, inspire him to do better.

This is the one that will give him purpose.