White Canvas

(For you only)

The sun comes through the tall window, creating impossible shadows among the corridor, between the sculptures exposed, painting with grey the floor, new art born by the touch of the stars.

He can hear his own steps echoing, blaring against the wood that covers the room while he walks under the dim light that hangs from the big ceiling, like sun catchers, reflexing over the arts exposed, carefully, only grazing them slightly, as if afraid, only a bit to preserve their beauty intact, to preserve them forever as the masterpieces that he knows they are, all created by the same hands but all so different, all under the name of the man he admired the most; Choi Seung Hyun. There are a few artworks that he has already seen; it’s not the first time for him visiting this gallery, but there is a new arrival, a painting made by his old teacher that he wants to see the most after reading all the critics. It has been described as astonishing, a face that allure the heart, a balanced composition between the lack of colors and light creating sombers, perfect in ways nobody knows, without a trace out of place, that fall just in place, like alive instead of graved on an oil painting and Song Minho wants to discover it, the meaning after these words, that face that flashes, taking away the breath of art critics as if in front of the Sixteen Chapel or a Rembrandt or any other grand name writen in history. 

His eyes sail across the hall, looking up and down at the impressive walls where all beauty live, draping them with explosion of colours, a vibrant burst of tones that lingers on the canvas, forming faces and landscapes of a delicacy that can’t be explained, the finest piece of art his sight has ever witnessed. But as pretty as they are – and they are so much rich and elegant and floral, precious in ways he can’t understand even after years of studying – they can’t captivate his eyes the way he is looking for,  whom still navigate through them all, searching, longing, as if waiting for the right one, as if expecting something more, something beyond words.

It’s hanging all alone, at the end of the corridor, between two large windows that bath it in gold and silver. It’s a simple portrait of a simple boy, he thinks, but then his eyes land there and, in a second, all has changed.

It’s painted in white and black but it feels like it gleams and shimmers. A long neck it’s exposed, a delicious Adam’s Apple that is just tempting bumps out of there, as if wanting to be kissed and Minho can't help but to wish he could. This boy is more than handsome, with a face that blanches under a craving light that draws shadows, covering him, only a bit of white highlighting, making it all much more interesting; he wants to turn around to see the other side illuminated under the stars. This boy is dazzlingly, with nearly closed eyes fixed on the sky and a worried face that makes him want to tell him all the secrets of his life, wrap him and melt his heart, giving back that something that he has lost, erasing the sadness that lingers on the corner of his lips and that spreads like a disease to cover him all. This boy, a simple painting that clings on a wall on a lonely exposition, somehow, is touching Minho’s heart in a way nothing has done it before. This boy, drawn and painted, just a part of someone's imagination, this unreal, ethereal boy, is stealing the beats of his life, all the colours fading away, because he doesn’t need them, he is beautiful in his own way, in this shadows and greys that shine like metal, as if made by steel and silver and precious gems. This boy is all he can see, all the art he knows, and his fingers are moving again over those white canvas he has forgotten, sketching him only, a face with no name that has taken away his dreams with a preciousness that can’t hold, that can’t be contained even if he tries once and again, it’s never as he wants it, it’s never enough to fulfil his desire of him, to catch the way he is, all his purity running away between his finger, like sand on the beach and he can't get over it, over those eyes catching fire and that smile that shines brighter than the sunshine. 

After days of losing sleep, of thinking about him only, he musters the courage to ask his teacher. He doesn’t need an introduction and he isn’t expecting one, he opens the door and enters his studio where that beautiful face pins up again; they are all different but they are pretty all the same, with eyes that are alive, piercing gaze that goes further than his mind.

“Who is him?” he asks and Choi Seunghyun looks at him from behind the canvas he is working on.

“Just a model,” he says casually, but Minho knows that there is more, that he wouldn’t paint someone that much and that lovingly, with so much care and adoration, nearly worshipping it,  if that person wasn’t important, significant; a part of his life. 

“Your lover?” he wonders, and he can feel his heart shattering, breaking apart.

“Maybe” he replies, smirking slightly as if seeing him numb in place was funny, delightful.

“Tell me, please” and the seriousness on his tone rubs away his smile.

“He is someone who Seungri knows. I spotted him on Jiyong’s pictures and felt for his eyes. They are so gorgeous; he made me want to paint again, after years of only teaching” and there is something dreamy on his voice, a bubble that holds a wish, a joy that was stolen to only come back to him once more. And Minho nods because he has felt that too, these captivating orbs that follow you; like a Madonna on the Rocks or a Mona Lisa, with a mysterious aura surrounding him and a cryptic smile he wants to fathom, decipher. “His name is Kim Jinwoo, though. I really think he works for Seungri. I can ask.” he offers as if knowing that this boy with a name that sounds like a song has moved to occupy all his mind,  and he pleas him to do so. He really wants to know, to see that face shining under a real light, to hear the sound of his laugh and the colour of his smile and the taste of his fluffy hair that has been black and pink and blond and all the tones of the rainbow. 

It takes three agonizing weeks for him to find that boy, and when they meet, in a cliché coffee shop that smells like sugar and vanilla late, his smile is blinding and Minho feels like dying because he is so much more beautiful in person; Choi SeungHyun's masterpiece couldn’t make justice to him, not a single bit – and he is one of the best artists that Korea has ever seen.

When this boy giggles Minho is disarmed, exposed, lost and he wants to stay there forever, in the brown that are his eyes that shimmer as if diamonds. He talks little but his voices is like butterfly; Minho talks for them both, making him laugh and he is in love with it, with that music he creates whenever he tells him a stupid joke – and how amazing this person is, giggling as if he was funny, listening to his stories as if craving to hear more, as if wanting to know everything about him, and Minho is so thankful to have found someone like Jinwoo, so willing to keep him too. And he falls and falls but it’s not love, because he is way too perfect, way too sweet and he calls to meet him again a few days after and Minho can’t hide his excitement.

They keep meeting and chatting and somehow they call it friendship; Minho shows him his art and he shows him his cats and they go to the movies twice and out to have dinner every Saturday and talks on the phone before closing their eyes, sleeping with smiles that bring sweet dreams with faces they will forget next morning but words that still lingers on their minds.

It’s been a year and Minho has told him that he has painted him finally, after all the insistence from Jinwoo, who is longing for his art, who loves the talent which he has been born with, all his lame jokes and the way he cares for everyone. Jinwoo rings the door and Minho rushes to greet him in, to let him inside his house and his heart, where he has been living since the first day, where he belongs already. Minho then shows him it and waits for his reaction.

“It’s just… Are you sure is it the one you were talking about?” he asks, surprised, and he knows exactly why.

“Yes, hundred percent sure of it,” he says and looks at him.

“It’s a white canvas” he pouts, and he is such adorable like this.

“It’s a white canvas” he agrees “because your beauty can’t be contained in any piece of art. It has to be seen. There are no hands able to paint you, what you truly are; your smile is so dazzlingly that dance upon the sky and your eyes are made by stars, there are no colors for them or for the way your lips curl up, between cherry and strawberry, but none of them is quite right” he explains, glistening. Jinwoo’s eyes are wide and round and perfect, amazed, and just now, in this second when Jinwoo is too confused to take it back, with his mind trying to understand what he means, he kisses him, these pretty lips he has so much tried to draw, painting them in all shades of pink and peach and rose. He opens them like flowers in bloom and Minho trembles, melting, letting him in, and kisses him back slowly, gently, sweetly.

The smell of turpentine lingers in the room, mixed with the watercolours and the temperas that he uses and are scattered around, and there are little particles of charcoal dancing under the light, black and dark, falling like ashes, and there is also the sweetness of the pastel that paints the walls, creating a big picture, framing them kissing, like a polaroid hanging on the bedside. And Minho breaks apart just for a second, to catch the air that Jinwoo has drunk from his lungs and to stare into his eyes that gleam as if fireworks were exploding inside.

“I – I like you” he murmurs against his skin, pale fighting his tanned face, his lips nearly grazing his cheeks and Minho shivers. “Are you alright?” he asks, eyes searching, looking deep inside him.

“Yes, yes. You are with me, you are here, now, and I love you and –“ but his words are swallowed by Jinwoo, who kisses him again, pressing his lovingly lips on his, rubbing away everything, leaving just a picture of him, a face in white and black that is hidden between shadows, neck exposed, eyes closed, just like now and Minho is befuddled to be kissing them all, that they are real under his touch, fingers that linger over skin that he has dreamt about, that white canvas he is going to draw over with bites and kisses,  a paint that talks of the love of his life.