“You know what,” Taemin grunted and tore the paper, his free hand holding the easel to keep it from falling. “This is the most terrible thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Speaking as if you’ve finished drawing,” Kibum said.

“I know I haven’t. But look at this mess.”

“There’s nothing to look at when you only draw three irregular lines, Taemin.”

The aforementioned man frowned. It was his second day locking himself in the old, empty classroom in the right wing of the abandoned college building. Nobody went there anymore, not after the institution decided to spend more on their new buildings with better facilities rather than paying for the maintenance of the former ones.

Taemin thought it was utterly selfish of the university. With all these hallways and many separated wings only for the deans, it didn’t feel like they did it for the students. Yeah, they scraped up some wealthy donors to inject money into the budget (while using the students’ welfare issue to add the sympathetic value into the cheap begging), but in what way did it benefit people?

Because for people like Taemin—people who just wanted peace and silence while working on their assignments—they would prefer these vacant spaces. Even if it means they had to violate the rules to sneak into the building.

“Prof Shim said three lines are enough….” Taemin trailed off, sketching random lines on the new paper before continuing, “to get my brain going; to have some nice imagination on what to create.”

“Mm-hm,” Kibum crossed his arms and stood beside his friend. He knew far too well that Taemin would give up in a few minutes (fifteen, tops) because he’d been doing that for two days now.

Three lines, mental block, torn paper, repeat.

It never happened before. Taemin was known for his imaginative mind. He usually read beyond words, saw beyond arts. He had his ways to project his ideas while making the best of the senses existing around him to be manifested in the form of paintings or realistic portraits.

But for some reason, he was losing it—a little bit.

Not the talent, not the imaginative part of his perfectly creative brain, not the skills. He was just losing himself. Like the inspiration was there, but he couldn't find the motivation to start drawing. It was as though he could concoct several ideas at once, but they contradicted each other that he didn’t know which one to choose and expand into a proper artwork.

It was that sort of misery that engulfed him as a whole right now, and Kibum knew he was right when Taemin suddenly stood up and started to leave angry scratches on the paper with his blunt pencil. It looked like a toddler’s art then, but beyond those messy scribbles, Kibum could see his initial touches:

Three lines.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Three lines, one dot, then just another outburst of emotions.

Kibum sighed before holding his friend’s hand, peeling his fingers off from holding the pencil carefully. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“What do you mean it’s enough for today? Kibum, I haven’t—”

“Yes, Taemin, I can see. You haven’t done anything, and that is alright. You’re just stressing yourself here.”

Taemin scowled. “But I need to submit this soon!”

“And you think you can come out with something in this ty place?” Kibum raised an eyebrow, challenging the latter to give him an answer. When Taemin kept quiet, he nodded firmly and pulled the younger man by the wrist, already heading out of the hallway. “Exactly. I’ll get you out of here. You're confining your imagination in this old, ugly, dusty and super unhealthy environment. No wonder this building is cursed.”

“Wait, where to?!” Taemin panicked, staggering under his futile attempt to keep up with Kibum’s pace. “My—my art supplies!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get them for you after dragging your stressful into my car.”


**


“You still haven’t answered my question,” Taemin said while leaning back in the seat, fingers fidgeting uneasily. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere fun.”

“Like what? Amusement parks?”

Kibum snorted as he pulled over, turning the engine off before shooting a playful grin at his clueless passenger. “That’s not fun by my standard. Now let’s go, Taemin. Bring your easel. I’ll only take your case.”

Taemin suspiciously narrowed his eyes, but he gathered his stuff and followed anyway. It only occurred to him that they were at the theatre when they stepped in, the empty, echoing auditorium with its safety curtain shutting both of them out from the outside world. Somehow, the view reminded him of Edward Hopper's painting, Solitary Figure in a Theatre, and he smiled slowly at the resemblance.

“Okay, we will do it again!”

Suddenly, a voice resounded throughout the space and caught Taemin’s attention. He was so into appreciating the nonexistent silence to realise that other people were in there, occupying the humongous stage with their presence. Taemin furrowed his eyebrows.

“They’re going to start practising. Quick!” Kibum hushed as he secured some random seat, pulling Taemin along all the while. “Don’t think about your assignment for now. Just breathe in, breathe out - and enjoy this unpaid show.”

“Oh boy, is this unpaid?” Taemin shrieked quietly. He’d done many rebellious things but to be at a place uninvited was another matter entirely.

“Well, I did say practice, didn’t I?”

Taemin only wrinkled his nose at the answer, taking all the time he needed before relaxing down upon hearing the first resonant sound of multiple cellos filling up the space in the theatre. According to Kibum, who seemed to know more than absolutely necessary, this group was only recently formed, consisting of emerging players from different backgrounds—some were originally solo, some were chamber, and the rest were orchestral cellists.

“They’re preparing for an ensemble this weekend,” Kibum whispered after a few moments of silence without looking at his attentive listener.

“I see. Do they practise often?”

“Quite.”

“And how do you know?” Taemin squinted, now sensing something fishy as Kibum continued to stare at the relatively young conductor. “Stop looking at him like that. You’re boring a hole in his back.”

“Shut up. And I’m aware of many things. You know that.”

He snickered and fixed his beret. “That’s a non-answer.”

Taemin noticed that one person specifically lit up the whole stage out of all the people handling the instrument. It was the man who sat on the furthest right of the formation at the back row; his white sleeves rolled up to his elbows with the cello resting heavily in between his legs. He was no different from the other cellists regarding the skills, or so Taemin thought, but there was undoubtedly something special about him as a person.

It could be the posture.

But again, he must be trained for that. Every other musician would be sitting tall the same way. Like a part of mannerisms, right?

Maybe the way he was feeling it - like channelling the inner angst to fit the song's mood they were collectively playing to. Perhaps the way he was so focused on his task. Or his exp