In This Light; Soonhoon

act one

➴ scene 1

SOME THINGS TO consider: yellow lamplight, that murmuring sound the heater makes while it's running. Soonyoung's music, quiet and muffled against the fabric of his hoodie.

"I won't ever paint heartbreak," he says solemnly. "There's no way it wouldn't turn out ugly."

Wonwoo's regular way of response is nothing more than a sigh, his eyes turned up for half a second before focusing back on the canvas in front of him.

"It would be like blue-green-brown, maybe even a little purple. Like a bruise." Soonyoung makes a face, his features pinching right in the middle with some sort of disgust. "Yeah," he says. "I'll never paint that."

Consider these: Soonyoung is warm, sprawled across two sofa cushions with his gaze glued to the ceiling and his fingers twisting in the air. He's trying to see how many shadow figures he can make, but it's sort of hard to tell in the even lighting.

"It doesn't have to be ugly," Wonwoo finally says, and it's soft.

"It usually is."

Soonyoung starts staring at his hands again. He's trying to figure out how he managed to get red acrylic all over them, kind of admiring the way one patch has dried to a slightly more muted shade. It leaves a little swirl of rose on the side of his palm.

A few more things, right here: brush hairs running dry as the paint gets used up, water swishing inside a jar. Soonyoung breathes in, and the smell of clay fogs up his throat. It tastes earthy. It sits, warm-like in his chest long after he's exhaled.

Wonwoo pushes up his glasses with the side of his hand, coughs once. Soonyoung starts again.

"What's this one about?" he asks. "Is it that boy, again?"

Wonwoo mumbles, "What does it matter?"

Soonyoung lets his fingers fall back down to his lap. He says, "That can't be good. By taking your own art and dedicating it to this one person ... you're practically dedicating a part of your heart to him. You're getting attached."

"Thank you for the wisdom, asshole."

"I'm only looking out for you."

This time, there's no pause before the dialogue. Nothing to indicate that Soonyoung has something to wait for. They sit with nothing but the air between them, the tradition they've upheld for the last few months, now, where Wonwoo works and Soonyoung procrastinates. His ten-minute break should've been up an hour ago, sketchbook still lying abandoned on the nearby desk, but he can't really bring himself to get up.

Soonyoung likes laying, he likes observing. The room is mostly empty, save for a scattering of students trying to finish up overdue projects. Of all he's seen filtering in and out of the studio, there's only one face he thinks he can recognize -

Who is he?

Soonyoung mouths the question, having to kick Wonwoo to get his attention and directing it to some corner of the room once he has it; there's this boy, sitting cross-legged on a stool with his eyes half-shut and his paintbrush swirling in murky water. Soonyoung's taken notice of him, if only because he's the only other person in here as often as he is.

"Hm? That's Jihoon," Wonwoo offers. "We have art history together."

"Are you friends?"

Wonwoo shakes his head, saying, "Not really. He's nice, I guess, just shy. He doesn't talk much."