“Will you come model for me, dove?”

Though they’re rooms apart, Kibum’s voice carries well enough that it’s almost as if he’s standing just behind Minho.

“Just as soon as I finish tidying up.”

“I have to prep everything anyway, take your time.”

Sweeping up photo paper ts, Minho tries to hurry in the cleanest way he can. Their new apartment with extra rooms for work spaces had turned out to be the much needed change in their life. FInally done tidying up, he walks down the hallway to Kibum’s paint studio. Per usual he has all the windows wide open, sheets spread out to protect the floor and walls.

“How am I to pose, maître peintre?”

Kibum laughs softly at the attempted French as he finishes drying his watercolor palette.

“Just come lay down near me. The afternoon sun’s going to be coming in soon.”

Minho does as he’s told, taking care not to knock anything over as he attempts to get comfortable. While it’s not wholly uncommon for Kibum to call Minho in to sit with him -- regardless of whether he’s modeling or not -- there’s still something special about the invitation. About being requested to exist in Kibum’s safe haven.

“Any idea of what you’re painting today?”

Kibum smiles. “Nope.”

“I feel like having no starting idea is harder for a painter.”

“As compared to a photographer?”

“Yeah. I might not know what I want to photograph when I go out, but I’ll know it when I see it. Like, the project I’m working on now. I had no preconceived idea of what it would be, but when I saw it it just clicked.”

“Like us?”

Minho hums and starts getting lost in the memory. His childhood friend and now dance prodigy Taemin dragging Minho along to an art exhibition that he was required to attend for a class. Though Minho had always had a penchant for visual arts, the fact that the exhibit was mostly focusing on up-and-coming painter Kim Kibum turned him off from it. Kibum’s work -- self described as vivid impressionism -- was obnoxiously bright and egregiously abstract in Minho’s opinion. And the fact that Kibum had made a comment in an interview about how Minho’s art was “stiflingly gray” and “incredibly barren.” Somehow -- by some miracle -- Taemin was able to appreciate both artistic visions and even orchestrated -- by some even greater miracle -- a joint exhibition between them: Minho took photos of Taemin’s self-choreographed senior recital and Kibum painted his own interpretations of the routine. After the opening of the exhibition, the three had gone home to Taemin’s tiny apartment for some celebratory drinks. A drunken heart to heart revealed that their differences in artistic style were driven by almost the same thing: Minho’s clean, minimalist grayscale photos sprang up out of his desire to simplify the world around him; Kibum’s loud, lively, messy paintings developed as an escape from the constraints of the world around him. Armed with newfound understanding and a handful of almost sober kisses, the two made an agreement and effort to improve their relationship. Though some of the smaller arts papers were saddened by the loss of their favorite intermedia rivalry, the two quickly became the beloved princes of the local art scene. And now, 5 years later-

Minho’s train of thought is interrupted by the sensation of something cold on his hand. Blinking back to the present, he looks at his hand.

“You weren’t listening to my posing instructions so I changed my mind and decided that you’re my medium today. I hope you don’t mind.”

Minho laughs but tries to keep his hand still in Kibum’s.

“Sorry, I was thinking about us.”

“I assumed you were. You had that funny dreamy look.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“It just seems odd to romanticize about our original rivalry is all.”

“How do you know that’s the part I fantasize about?”
“I said romanticize not fantasize.”

Minho sighs in fond annoyance and Kibum goes back to painting.

“Can I at least see what’s being painted on me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to trust me.”

Minho chuckles and shifts around so his arm is in a more comfortable position.

“There’s finally proper reviews of my last exhibition out.”

“It took them this long?”

“Yeah. Well, at least for the serious people.”

“But didn’t it close last week?”
“Yeah. They came to the last day so they could interview me about it.”

“Ahh.”

Minho waits for Kibum’s interest to come to the forefront of his mind; he recognizes the focused look in Kibum’s eyes. Five years later, he’s learned to appreciate and love the look of Kibum painting.

“So what did it say?”

“That it was very experimental for me, and that even though everything was still monochrome, that it seemed as if you’re finally starting to rub off on me in the brightest way.”

“It would really kill you to have more than one color wouldn’t it?”

“One color is enough for me, just like one boyfriend is enough for me.”

Kibum furrows his brow, amused skepticism coloring his face.

“Was there doubt about this?”

“One of the comments on the article was if I had enough lovers who used such bright colors that eventually I’d end up with full color photos.”

Kibum puts his paintbrush down and laughs til there’s tears in his eyes.

“I thought of commenting back ‘sorry I only need one shade of love paint in my life’ but didn’t want to seem like I super care about public opinion on my private life.”

“Love paint? Is that what I am?”

“What? You’ve made my life literally and metaphorically more colorful, haven’t you? Painted my existence with love?”

Kibum rolls his eyes and picks up his paintbrush again. “Don’t make me paint a on your hand.”

“I’m being honest! And also you wouldn’t.”

“Oh wouldn’t I?”

“Why would you put the effort into consciously painting a on my hand when you could just put yours in my hand?”

Kibum huffs in unadmitted defeat and starts washing his brush. Minho sneaks a glance at his half dried hand and forearm: the sight of grayscale paint makes his heart swell.