Intoxicating fresh air of the upcoming spring blew across the dunes of sand being swept up by the cool breeze toward and beyond the mix between cerulean blue and azurite. A light emerald reflection also presented itself, a vibrant lilac, mercuric sulfide vermilion eager to become rose, a gradient between pale magenta and pastel red. Two boys, one with an interesting posture, rested at an almost awkward distance on the crest of the border between sand and grass, silently memorising the miniscule details of the watercolour view, feigning interest as they attempted to alleviate the artless atmosphere. “Flawless, isn’t it?”

The beginning of another creation. 

**

Covered in a mop of chestnut brown containing shades of alizarin crimson and coffee highlights, the shorter of the two offered assistance to the boy who held the juxtaposition of bistre strands against a vanilla complexion to get on his feet, albeit only after relieving his back pockets of remaining sand and swiftly brushing his hands together to further rid of the leftovers, nonchalant while staring into the dissipating fog of the early morning’s distance.

Oh Sehun was a boy of many dreams and aspirations, mostly regarded by the community as the boy with an interesting posture. Not caring about his affluence, he only considered the smaller things in life to be important – the violet of the dusk sky before it turned to complete leather black, the blizzard blue he observed on the finest days of winter when the contrast of the sky and the weather was evident, the thulian pink of the artificial sakuras planted beside the sidewalks he strode on after his daily attempt to make friends at the pristine coastline. His life was about colour, and only colour. “Sehun,” he introduced, revealing an unexpected slight lisp.

Considering he had just moved into the area, the leather-haired boy accepted the offered hand, deciding that the boy wasn’t as frightening as he had seemed from first impressions, although unsure they could be compatible. He had been invited over to sit with this so-called Sehun while taking a casual morning stroll along the bronze sand of 7:12AM and acknowledged the invitation out of courtesy, but wasn’t really planning to stay and contained an unexplained desire to omit his life’s important details whatever questions he was asked. Huang Zitao was accustomed to residing in an area where doors of houses were left open with nobody home, children played until the streetlights had been on for hours; the community became one as the burnt sienna sunsets converted to mere darkness. He still hadn’t gained a sense of safety in this area so, despite the serenity of the place, he was being careful. Ridding the uncertain feeling present in his stomach, he opted that introducing himself back would keep him out of trouble. “Tao,” the boy replied with an undeniable accent, altering the grasp of the stranger’s hand to a handshake.

Sehun’s focus was usually on something more important – completing a painting or drawing his next idea for a landscape – but the mysterious aura surrounding Tao had caught him off-guard. He knew how to play games, how to make people like him, so he continued his usual routine. He’d rehearsed this many times over, and he would get what he wanted every time. Releasing his grip on the handshake and dropping his synthetic smile after turning 180 degrees, he began to walk away from the recently introduced friendliness that distinguished his personality from the millions of earrings piercing him, the innocent boy unknowingly following through with Sehun’s plan and trailing along behind him. All he wanted was a companion to visit his home regularly, to tell him how good he was, and it had become normality that they didn’t fit with his expectations. But Tao, he was something different. He seemed to hold the same mindset as Sehun, and matched his actions with perfect morale.

Exhilarated by the fact that something was finally going right in comparison to the events of his usual endeavours, Sehun continued barefoot down the streets of the isolate area towards his residence, Tao a silent pace behind him. Not used to successful manipulation, Sehun wasn’t quite sure why Tao was actually following him – if he were in a similar position he would have hidden behind anything in sight and escaped as hastily as possible. Concealing his thoughts, he kept a cool façade and maintained his rhythm until he heard a faintly audible Tao ask where they were going. Ceasing his steps to answer, he deliberated his words before he spoke them aloud. “My apartment. We can eat when we get there, get to know each other better over a casual breakfast. What do you like?”

“Uh...” Tao’s face retrieved a hint of warmth against the cool winter breeze as he tilted his head to the right, “I don’t really eat breakfast - I favour coffee over food in the mornings, I guess. It helps me keep my eyes open.”

“I can’t see your eyes through your eye bags anyway. How did they get that big?” Sehun played, performing trial and error on Tao to see what really pulled on his nerves. Receiving only an impish snicker in return, he figured this didn’t bother him and that it wasn’t the first time he’d been asked. “Well, I like sushi, and you will eat my sushi, so we shall go to my apartment and make sushi. Futomaki or hosomaki?”


After a period of complication and trickles of Sehun where is the bamboo thingy, Sehun I can’t find the crab, Sehun can you help me, and dribbles of Tao just shut up for a second, Tao, TAO, SHUT UP, the two sat down with their platters of antique ruby unagi, arylide yellow tamago and prevalent pastel green dragon rolls with a compulsory side of kimchi, pride bubbling over after completing the set task. The minutes ran from the two who had become closer after an hour and a half had passed. It wasn’t really breakfast anymore, thank God – Tao would have just eaten and tasted it twice. Resulting from an awkward silence, Sehun opted to start the conversation to avoid proliferating discomfort. “Tao?”

“Yes?” he replied, choking down a large portion of sushi that Sehun thought couldn’t have possibly fit in anyone’s mouth without stretching their cheeks past their absolute limit, resembling his crow-like features exactly.

“That’s all I know about you – your name. I need a profile, supplementary information to back up your personality, your semantics. Where’s your accent from? What’s your favourite colour? Do you have a hobby? What languages do you speak? Do you like cats?” Sehun spat, one question after the other, not daring to allow silence.

“China. Blue. Wushu. English, Cantonese, Mandarin… Yes,” forgetting that he didn’t want to give out important information, Tao replied, although only after holding a bewildered expression for a few seconds, memorising the questions and struggling to keep the answers in order as to not confuse the recipient of his forgivable accent. He didn’t really know what liking cats had to do with his profile, though, but he continued eating when his response felt satisfactory. Sehun gave an impression of approval, and positioned his silver chopsticks beside his not yet empty cosmic latte plate, the parallel utensils an unvoiced claim that he was finished. Respectfully, considering it was the first time they had met, Tao repeated the action, eager to know what they were going to do next and not trying to hide his excitement.

Scribbling the newly revealed information in a notebook he’d quickly grabbed from the bench top, a crease appeared between Sehun’s eyebrows as he pursed his lips, taking in the information he’d just written. “Okay, I think that’s enough for today – I’ve probably exhausted you. Thanks for the sushi; you seem to have some kind of expertise other than wushu, even if you’re so stupid. No offence. See you at the beach again tomorrow? 7:14AM?” Sehun insisted, an asymmetrical grin creeping upon his face as he looked up from the floral white paper now resting on his knee, not allowing Tao to get a word in while speaking but letting a silent wait for an answer follow.

“7:14AM.”






The days followed one by one. Each day becoming a new experience, every day beginning at the same beach that took away the ‘in’ from ‘incompatible’ and turned it into something unknown but precious. Sehun and Tao had undeniably become closer, and at some point or another always ended up at the now familiar venue of Sehun’s apartment, a new event always prepared and always, for some reason, astonishing for Tao – some days spent relaxing watching reruns, others spent playing a game of table tennis in the dining room, the azure mist walls a distinction from the pushed aside aurometal coloured chairs. Today was different, though. It was spent with no distractions, sitting one leg over the other on the cool leather of the beige couch, continuous talk only fading into the unusually warm night when both had drifted into a night of pleasant dreaming under a shared mauve quilt.


Hazy from the previous early mornings, both woke at a rather later time than the typical 7:14, not minding due to the fact that they didn’t have to dread the walk to the beach to meet each other, since they were already together. Cracking stiff necks and popping air bubbles from knuckles, Sehun stood up to stretch while Tao walked over to the kettle to fill with water and switch it to the boil, a routine he had acquainted himself with. Although Sehun continued to urge him, he still couldn’t eat in the morning, but guessed it was an acquired habit so had a snack or two here and there. And although Tao encouraged him that coffee was a good stimulus to remain alert throughout the day, Sehun couldn’t bring himself to drink it immediately after waking, but figured having a sip or two of warm milk after waking up would help him adjust. It usually just made him sleepy.

After a set of learned stretches constructed for waking up after a long night on the couch, the Kenyan copper-eyed boy walked over to the honeydew bench and placed himself on one of the many gainsboro stools bought years ago, watching as Tao spooned amounts of sugar into his self-claimed navajo white coffee cup, 4 heaped teaspoons chased by a hazelnut flavoured milk portion to lighten up the bitterness, apparently, although Sehun thought that it beat more than toffee mixed with cotton candy and dipped in maple syrup in terms of sweetness.
“You’re going to die, you know. And it’s not going to be because of the caffeine in the coffee. All that sugar’s really bad for your system as well,” Sehun muttered, a serious concentration plastered upon his face as he shifted his glare from Tao’s coffee cup to his reflection in the tiled ivory wall before him that showcased years of paintings, both unfinished and completed.

“I like sweetness. On the other hand, you don’t seem to have a millilitre of it within you – the glucose in your bloodstream should make you at least less obnoxious to be around. Or do you have no metabolism? If you don’t start being nicer, I’m going to have to pretend I never met you. Maybe you’re really bad for my system,” Tao joked, shooting back a dark yet playful glare as if his entire world had been insulted, burned to taupe ashes. Sehun appeared unbothered by the statement, but rather seemed to be in deep thought and oblivious to anything Tao had just said. Tao had only known Sehun for a while, but the formed camaraderie was undeniable and he couldn’t deceive himself into believing Sehun’s reverie was anything worse than a mood swing. Although they were both still tired, it seemed Sehun had psychotically forgotten how to smile. Tao attempted to lighten up the atmosphere by getting him to talk. It’s not like he knew much about him anyway, he’d never asked Sehun about his profile after he had told him his own, and perhaps he wanted to. Sehun knew everything about him, now it was his turn to “find out”. Stirring his spoon in the newly mixed coffee, he insisted on Sehun answering his inquiries. “What do you do, Sehun? Like, what do you make a living out of?”
“I’m a painter. An artist. Everything I see is a portrait. Typical shades that probably mean nothing to you mean an entirety to me. I see names above colours as they become ambiguous, fading into the distance and etching into my memory. I transfer what I see onto canvas so I can share it with the world, no matter what,” Sehun streamed without missing a beat, seemingly reciting an already rehearsed speech. Glancing up at Tao’s intrigued expression, he remembered he wasn’t alone and that he shouldn’t dig into his thoughts too much. Attempting to refine what he wanted to say to a few words, he continued to reveal the passion that accumulated inside him more and more every day. “Right now, I’m looking for the perfect portrait to paint. It needs to be flawless, no filtering of blemishes needed.”


“Can I… see you paint?”







Sehun led Tao to a lengthy room that held a warm yet eerie feeling, a collection of his recent and not-so-recent portraits already being displayed alongside each other against one side of a lavender blue wall and blank canvases racking along the other, each arranged with their own easel and paint set against a different brick wall. The contrast was an obscurity but the colours Sehun had set up were endless – every shade of black, all highlights of white, every vibrancy, every pastel, acrylic, oil, and watercolour in the spectrum available. They mostly consisted of the warmer colours - ambers, crimsons, roses, atomic tangerines mixed with bittersweet shimmers. Tao didn’t bother to ask why. Varied artists had varied styles. There was one thing Tao noticed, though – the portraits were hardly of places, but people. All of them were people. Different colours scattered throughout, different shading techniques attending, and one blank canvas positioned in the centre of them all, unfit on the side of completed paintings and ostensibly belonging to the other. Tao decided to ask one question at a time. “Why are all your paintings of people?”


Sehun acquiesced that this type of question should be expected, and opted to answer sincerely, though hesitant. “These people… they’re memories. They’re people I once knew. People come and go, so I figure that once I meet them I should turn them into paintings so they can’t be forgotten. I know what it’s like to be forgotten, and I don’t want them to go through that kind of ache that I have been through so many times, so I make them into paintings. I haven’t painted a real scene yet, because they don’t come and go like people do.”
“Oh. But what if one day, they do? Venues can vanish just like people, you know. They can be knocked down, incinerated. So today, I want to watch you paint a place that I’d like to think is special to both of us,” Tao announced, a hopefulness present that Sehun would know what he was talking about.

“The beach,” Sehun elucidated.




Set down at the centre blank canvas, Sehun’s expression appeared solid as he heightened his concentration levels and lowered his breathing rate, remaining still as he followed through with meticulous , guiding the precision and accuracy required with the flow of his hand, delicacy present and intricacy more important. The sophistication in every aspect surprised Tao – the fragility of the aesthetics, the vulnerability of the texture, susceptibility of the colours, the lenience the colours presented to blend together or otherwise remain independent. The electric blues turned to slate, sea greens blending into spring, Mikado yellow graduating to midori. Suspense filled the air after every , a curiosity as to whether the right emotion would expose itself with each different tone, chiaroscuro constantly changing impressions and creating new ones, hints of reminiscence tracing every outline.


Tao had watched Sehun so intently and been amazed by the intensity and structure he placed upon himself that he released a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. Embracing the atmosphere of tranquillity and suggestions of final completion, Tao strolled over to a tensed Sehun and touched his shoulder lightly, envious but proud of the revelation of his newly found soul mate’s passion. As Sehun gradually stood up, embarrassment or even shame flushing over his cheeks, Tao slowly leaned in, firstly locking eyes and then softly pressing his lips against that of his companion, an expression not of wanting further physical interaction, but to express what words couldn’t in the serenity of the moment. Pulling away leisurely after a satisfactory response, he kept his hands rested on tensed shoulders and locked eyes with Sehun in an attempt to express his abundance of thoughts in comprehendible words. “That is beautiful. You are beautiful,” was the only thing he could come up with.


Silence followed as Sehun went to make lunch and Tao repositioned on the seat he had been on before, inhaling the breathtaking integrity of the painting just completed, and all those on either side. Each painting seemed to have its own story – that of a personality. It invaded Tao’s thoughts that each one of these people had their own personality, their own friends, their own tales to tell. His curiosity had always been one of those how does each person have their own life and handwriting and family and thoughts and kinds. It astounded him that each person in the world had specific detail, and the paintings that Sehun showcased seemed to match his thoughts uncannily. Perhaps they were meant to be. Perhaps their encounter on that early morning hadn’t been an accident and, just perhaps, Tao wanted to spend the rest of his life with the perfectionist who goes by the name of Sehun.

Hours passed staring at the outlines of the unknown faces, Tao lacking knowledge of their lives but enthusiastic to find out more. Instead, he decided he should make his own lunch since his stomach continued to remind him it was empty. He and Sehun talked while he prepared new kimchi, t it to suit his liking. “Did you like watching me paint, then?” Sehun asked, implying he already knew the answer he was expecting.

Tao rolled his eyes after hearing the implication, and retaliated with a sarcastic “No. It was ugly, just like you.”

With knowledge that Tao was joking but still feeling slightly insulted and being the older of the two, Sehun raised his arm teasingly preparing hit him until he realised that Tao’s finger was gushing out instances of cadmium red and instantly lowering his arm to ask what happened.
“I don’t know. I cut it on the knife, I guess. Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt. I’ll just wrap it up. First Aid?”

“First of all, I wasn’t worrying. Second of all, you should be more careful. Third of all, it’s – here, I’ll get it,” Sehun exasperated, but continued as he began to wrap Tao’s finger in a cotton bandage, inspecting the blood persistently soaking through the material and neglecting his irritancy. “Tao, your blood… It’s kind of pretty. It’s like the perfect unity of carmine and carnation, something you can’t make anywhere else. But yours is so… natural. You know nobody in the world can make this colour, and you have it flowing through your arteries?” a seemingly upset Sehun remarked. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“You are really weird,” Tao commented casually, wondering if what Sehun just told him was a normal thing to hear. He disregarded it, settling on the fact that Sehun was just really weird. After hearing him scoff as if he’d just heard the worst joke of his life, Tao changed the subject. “Has anyone actually seen your paintings? They’re really good, could probably sell for millions if they haven’t already.”

“No. Why would exchange my memories for money? I’m not that superficial, you know. I’d rather keep people with me than give them away to some stranger who will probably throw them out after a few years.”

Tao took his words into consideration, but the look Sehun had in his eye while he was talking suggested something different to the words spilling out of his mouth. He seemed like he’d said them too many times before, like people had already asked him to sell the things most precious to him. Tao didn’t want his memories to be exchanged, but he still wanted to showcase them to the world.



As Sehun fell asleep in the comfort of his bed, Tao snuck out of his bedroom and into the room vibrant with coloured portraits and a bright lavender wall. He searched for the recent painting that was completed at his request, and attempted to take it off the easel it was fitted with. Accidentally knocking it off before he could have complete control over it, the painting fell, knocking off the palette of liquid-like paint onto the paper laid on the ground, with its own paint streaking across the canvas, ruining the quality it had held before.

Awoken by the sudden increased decibels, an angry and tired Sehun with eyes still droopy stormed into the room, switching the light on as he passed the doorframe. Staring at Tao, the painting and palette knocked onto the ground, he tried to piece together the situation. “What are you doing? Why the is that on the ground? Did you not see how much blood and sweat I put into that?”

Tao shuffled in his spot, unsure he had the ability to answer Sehun’s question without whimpering. He had a feeling Sehun had multiple personalities, and that the one he had never seen before was the monster that was never revealed. Sehun walked over to him swiftly, grabbing his wrist and leading him somewhere unknown, time passing by slowly as the darkness crept upon them. They walked down steps one by one and around unidentified corners until finally reaching the destination Sehun had intended. Tao had no idea what was happening, and not much time to figure it out.







“I didn’t mean to! It was an accident, I swear. I wasn’t doing anything you wouldn’t do. I just wanted to sho- Please- Sehu- Just give me another chance, please.”
“Are you stupid? Giving someone a second chance is like giving someone another bullet for their gun because they missed you the first time,” Sehun cited, thrashing the boy with emptied tear ducts against the wall of run-down, burgundy bricks. Perpetuating the event he’s been dreaming of, excitement lit up his eyes and darkened his expression. “They will die anyway, and I’m not going to die today. Not tomorrow. If it makes you feel any better, you have the perfect RGB values for watercolour,” he continued with incessant rationalisation, retrieving a hefty razor blade from his sonic cufflinks. It was mandatory to be fashionable on an occasion like this. Sehun had been through it too many times before, but each time was different. This was the time. He had finally found the flawlessness he’d been searching for, and he wasn’t planning to forfeit it for anything. “Your blood… It’s kind of pretty. It’s like the perfect unity of carmine and carnation, something you can’t make anywhere else. But yours is so… natural. You know nobody in the world can make this colour, and you have it flowing through your arteries?” The same words previously said so calmly now obtained an intimidating tone, frightening Tao further than his limits allowed.

“I’ve been dreaming of finding the perfect portrait for so long, you know that. The perfect colouring, the perfect texture, the perfect dream. You are my dream. I need to value my dreams, otherwise they’ll disappear, they’ll run from me. I don’t want you to run from me, Tao. People come and go, so I figure that once I meet them I should turn them into paintings so they can’t be forgotten. I know what it’s like to be forgotten, and I don’t want them to go through that kind of ache that I have been through so many times, so I make them into paintings. I don’t want you to go. I want you to become part of my collection. You need to become part of my memories. You need to become my painting,” Sehun demanded, his voice continuously breaking.

Unfazed by the liquorice-haired boy’s constant pleas, Sehun released his grip from Tao’s drying throat and let him drop to the ground, knocking his head against the rigid concrete floor and unconscious. Rushing to grab his wrist before he had any chance of consciousness or escape, Sehun placed the blade against the bisque shade of skin that revealed protruding beau blue veins. Lacking any form of sympathy for someone as innocent as Tao – no, wrong, nobody’s innocent – he began cutting through the rubbery texture of skin, alternating between slashing back and forth and matching one way down the ligaments and into the arteries, carnelian becoming coquelicot as it reacted with oxygen. It wouldn’t hurt Tao anyway, he was unconscious and probably soon dead. Not shifting to different points around the arm but remaining on the wrist in order to avoid diffusion of pain, Sehun cut one slice after the other, deeper and deeper until what was left of the wrist was barely holding on and could barely be classified as a part of the body anymore. Just how he liked it.

Sehun accepted his perpetration as once again successful, and headed for the corner where he kept thick rope and blank canvas, dragging Tao by his dislocated wrist, smeared blood consistent along the concrete, covering the stains of many other remnants, dried and insignificant – just like Tao was going to be. The thick rope, already tied to a bar in the roof, hung loose and eager to have its other end connected. Pulling the rope down and Tao’s ankle up, he confirmed a figure eight knot around the scrawny foot of the slowly dying and ensured the un-clotted wrist was positioned correctly above the palette, Sehun’s tears of whatever emotion, if any, he was feeling turning the jasper blood into watercolour.
A tight grip on the usual thin synthetic paintbrush, Sehun dipped the tip into the gathering pile of copper blood, one of the most pure colours he had observed in his whole life, and began painting on the blank canvas. Tears flowed throughout the night and into the early morning as he traced the outline of leather hair, juxtaposition of bistre strands against a vanilla complexion and recollections of their memories. The memories couldn’t escape now. They were trapped in a painting, just like everyone else’s.

Sehun painted for as long as necessary, managing to create more different shades with one colour than supposedly possible – ambers, crimsons, roses, atomic tangerines mixed with bittersweet shimmers. He worked in layers, sweat mixing with tears to maintain the striking watercolour he perceived as flawless.

At 7:14AM, Sehun had worked for six hours straight, no break needed. He placed the overused paintbrush in the jar of clear turned lava water and admired his painting as he compared it to the ghost white face beside it, a small breath barely noticeable against minor drips of blood and unstructured bones. He considered the painting for an extensive amount of time, but figured something still wasn’t right. The perfection he had discovered was mere deception. This was not his dream. This was not what he had been looking for.
He had to start all over again.

**

Intoxicating fresh air of the upcoming spring blew across the dunes of sand being swept up by the cool breeze toward and beyond the mix between cerulean blue and azurite. A light emerald reflection also presented itself, a vibrant lilac, mercuric sulfide vermilion eager to become rose, a gradient between pale magenta and pastel red. Two boys, one with an interesting posture, rested at an almost awkward distance on the crest of the border between sand and grass, silently memorising the miniscule details of the watercolour view, feigning interest as they attempted to alleviate the artless atmosphere. “Flawless, isn’t it?”

The beginning of another creation.