Going to Café Noir put Jongin in a worse mood than he'd been in earlier that morning. It took all of his willpower to not dump the cup of hot chocolate onto the table and stalk out of the coffee shop, especially since Yixing wasn’t aware of how he was feeling. Out of consideration for his friend, Jongin kept his anger at a simmer and silently finished his drink with a sour look on his face.

When they returned home, Jongin escaped to his work room on the second floor without a word. The door swung shut with a loud bang and the manager sadly looked up at the curved, ivory staircase. It seemed like his plan to get Jongin to relax had backfired completely. At the very least, the taller male couldn’t do too much in his work room except create art, so Yixing decided he’d let Jongin cool off before bringing up a plate of snacks for him.

It was admittedly very exhausting being friends with Jongin, but Yixing couldn’t leave the artist alone. For three long years, it had only been the two of them in a completely unfamiliar country as they tried their absolute best to make their dreams a reality. Oftentimes, especially in the beginning, the only other person they had interacted with was each other. To uproot themselves entirely, for the second time in Yixing’s case, it had taken a leap of faith and total trust in Jongin’s artistic prowess.

The pair could have easily failed, just as countless of other aspiring artists had when attempting to reach that precious breakthrough moment to emerge as a lauded figure in the end. The art community was fickle and picky, and without the necessary talent and drive to stand out amongst the dozens of young hopefuls who were hoping to make it big, it was virtually impossible to succeed as an artist. Not to mention, being Asian had already put Jongin at a disadvantage against his Caucasian peers. The odds had been stacked against him from the start and Yixing could have easily let his friend pursue this wild dream on his own.

But Yixing had seen Jongin effortlessly create magic more times than he could count. He knew firsthand how talented his friend was and that was why it had been a no-brainer for him to accept Jongin’s proposal to work together, all those years ago.

And the manager would make the same decision in a heartbeat, one hundred times over.

--

A knock sounded on the door of the work room, but Jongin was too engrossed in his artwork to bother responding. After several seconds, it slowly opened to reveal Yixing who was carrying a plate of freshly cut fruit. The manager genially walked over and upon noticing that his friend was hard at work, he placed the plate on a small table that was covered with several sheets of paper. As he set the plate down, Yixing took a closer look at the drawings on the paper and his heart sank when he registered what Jongin had been sketching for the past few hours.

Guns.

Pistols. Revolvers. Rifles. Muskets. Shotguns. Machine guns. Cannons.

They were drawn so realistically. It looked like the sunlight from the window of the work room was glinting off of the dark metal. The weapons shone brightly, but in a sinister manner. Yixing felt chills go down his spine and dozens of goose bumps formed on his arms, even though the room was relatively warm due to the heater that was currently on.

He began directing his gaze around the spacious work room when he realized these sketches were strewn all over the place. Guns of all shapes and sizes. Guns of every make and model. There was no end to the number of guns that Jongin had drawn in the span of about three hours.

A number of them were more graphic and menacing than others. While some of the sketches were of the guns alone, several depicted the guns in action.

Guns aimed at arms. Guns aimed at legs. Guns aimed at chests. Guns aimed at heads.

Hands grasping guns tightly. Fingers on the trigger. Hands on the floor with guns lying next to them.

Bullets zipping through the air. Bullets piercing through glass windows that shattered upon contact. Bullets tearing through fabric and penetrating human bodies.

“Jongin, what are you doing?!”

The artist turned his head to see Yixing staring at him, looking completely horrified. “What do you mean?” he asked in irritation as he set down his graphite pencil. “I’m trying and failing quite horribly, I might add, to draw.” Jongin motioned towards the various sketches that dotted the room and said, “These are all failures. I just can’t seem to draw the perfect gun or draw the perfect scenario with a gun.”

He didn’t know how, but the anger and annoyance from earlier had put him in the mood for drawing weaponry. The last time he had done so was in elementary school, when he had been fascinated by the various weapons that heroes would wield. Jongin had thought it would be a good idea to work out his frustrations by drawing an assortment of guns and different types of scenes containing guns.

But to Yixing, all he could see was a broken man who was drawing out his darkest, innermost thoughts and feelings.

The wispy that represented how ephemeral life was.

The hard glint of gunmetal that signified how harsh and unforgiving life could be.

The frail, bony fingers of the hands grasping the guns that showcased how desperate a person was to wield the weapon at someone's life.

Everything just screamed death in a grossly poetic way.

“This isn’t normal, Jongin,” Yixing began as he pointed at the sketch currently on the artist’s easel. It was of a man falling down a bottomless hole that looked as if it had been created by a bullet fired from the gigantic black pistol that took up most of the page. “It’s like… It’s like a cry for help.”

“But I don’t need help,” Jongin immediately rebutted as his eyes darkened when he heard the note of judgment in the manager’s voice. After all, what did Yixing know? If Jongin happened to be in the mood to draw guns, then he gladly would.

However, that was contrary to what the manager understood from his distressed friend’s dark, unsettling art.

“Jongin, please think about what you’re doing,” Yixing begged, his voice growing more high-pitched with desperation. “This isn’t healthy for you at all. I promise I won’t ask you why you’re so upset today, but please breathe for a moment and take a step back to erase these toxic thoughts that are filling up your mind. You’re self-destructing before my eyes and it’s terrifying me, because I want to help you, but you’re not letting me.” The manager’s voice cracked near the end as he slumped forward on his knees, his arms hanging listlessly at his side.

And as much as he didn’t want to, Jongin felt an overwhelming wave of guilt wash over him. Even though he had known that his bad mood and difficult ways hadn’t been easy to deal with for Yixing, the artist hadn’t thought that his friend would be affected to this extent. Jongin had forgotten that, although he was the sole creator of his art, he still couldn’t have gotten as far as he did without Yixing’s expert assistance and unwavering support.

The manager made it so that Jongin didn’t have to worry about contract negotiations with art galleries and museums. Instead of concerning himself with scheduling interviews and art shows, the artist could focus wholly on his artwork. Yixing dealt with the wealthy sponsors and exhibit managers who all wanted a piece of Kim Jongin, art prodigy of the decade. Their partnership worked flawlessly and would have continued to reap success if Jongin hadn’t suddenly found himself in a rut.

Truthfully, he had been taking Yixing for granted this entire time and Jongin hated himself for doing that to his friend.

Taking a deep breath, the artist placed his hands on Yixing’s upper arms and gently pulled his friend up from the ground. “I’m sorry,” Jongin murmured as the manager unsteadily staggered into an upright position. “I… I don’t know what came over me.”

“I know things are hard for you right now. Not having your color vision like you used to must be frustrating for you. I understand that it isn’t easy to create when you’re feeling so discouraged.” Yixing looked directly into Jongin’s eyes as he continued, “And I know you hate asking for help, but I’m here for you. Aside from my job as your manager, I’m here for you as your friend. I don’t want you to struggle alone like this. If I can do anything to help ease the burden off of your shoulders, tell me and I’ll do it.”

Jongin didn’t know how to answer, so he only looked down at the floor to avoid Yixing’s strong gaze.

The manager’s heart sank, thinking he wasn’t getting through to Jongin. “Jongdae and I are both really worried about you. You can also go to your brother for help if you aren’t comfortable enough with me…” Yixing’s voice trailed off near the end, because the thought that Jongin didn’t value him enough to ask for assistance was a hard pill to swallow. Perhaps all of time they had spent together these past years meant nothing to the artist. Perhaps the strength of their bond had only been part of his imagination…

“It’s not that,” Jongin quickly spoke up. “I’d always choose you over Jongdae.” Especially because his older brother would never be able to understand the pain and stress that he’d been enduring since first being into the limelight as a child prodigy. Jongdae would only snark jealously about how Jongin’s life must be so hard as a genius who was constantly showered with praise and accolades.

“Then what is it? Why haven’t you tried asking me to help you with your problems?”

Well, it was just that Jongin didn’t actually know how to ask for help.

He had never been in such a predicament in which he was unable to solve his problems by himself. In the past, he had always been able to push through the obstacles that stood in his way. There was no need to rely on others.

Jongin had been trying to chase after his muse for half a year now, albeit unsuccessfully, but his muse belonged only to him. How could Yixing help return such an integral, sacred part of the artist that should essentially be ingrained in his very being? A muse was the foundation of any artist and he might as well consider officially retiring if he couldn’t retrieve his muse on his own.

As Yixing had said when they were in Paris, Jongin was the artist of the pair.

Yixing’s throat became parched and his chest tightened as he waited for his friend to say something. “What can I do to prove myself to you? What can I do to show you that I am available to help you out? That you can trust me?” he continued to plead as the silence dragged on.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” the taller male answered with an uncharacteristically gentle smile on his face. “I’m… I guess I’m just trying to figure myself out and express myself the best way that I can, which is through my art.” Jongin let out a deep breath before continuing, “The guns really don’t mean anything. I just remembered how I used to draw weapons for a brief period when I was younger and I figured it wouldn’t hurt to revisit that era of my life.”

He briefly glanced at the various sketches of guns that littered his work room and grimaced when he noticed how dark they really were. No wonder Yixing had freaked out. He probably would have reacted the same way if he had been in the manager’s shoes.

“Maybe I need to stop trying to force the art out,” Jongin finally finished as he began sweeping the scattered sketches into his arms. “Maybe my muse is playing hide-and-seek with me. The more I try to search for it, the more it shrinks away from me.” He chuckled while handing the stack of gun sketches to Yixing, whose eyes widened in surprise. “Or maybe it found another artist to grace its presence with. I don’t know. But I guess I’ll let my muse come to me when it’s ready to make magic with me again. I’ll…take a break from making art for now.” Jongin then patted his friend’s shoulder before walking out of his work room with his head held high.

Yixing was temporarily stunned into silence before remembering that he had a bunch of the artist’s sketches in his arms now. “Wait, what d'you want me to do with these?” he asked, waving the sketches in the air.

“Toss them. Keep them. Burn them. Do whatever you want with them,” Jongin carelessly called over his shoulder as he strolled down the stairs. “I’m going out for a walk.”

♈♈♈