He is showing off but Jinwoo doesn’t mind – he never does, not when he is so excited, so animated and so alive like now.

He examinees them carefully, taking in all the details, all the little pieces he has put on to make them special, personal, a gift and, despite his lack of knowledge about art, he nods in agreement, contemplates it objectively, smirks at how talented he is, how incredible – hardworking and diligent, he puts in all his might, all his energy. He has crafted them to perfection, to present the reality of them – his friends, their friends, people he knows as well as his own name. He smiles at the small trails that make these arts even more intimate – the cameras, the Chanel bag, the minute colors fading over the canvas and that represents them all, that depict them to perfection (just one glance and he sees them, the real ones, reflected in the picture Minho has drawn, takes in all the points and aspects and all the tiny parts hidden, the meaning obscured by the simplicity of it all).

He looks around, peeks at the canvas pilled on the wall, tries to catch something, a fleck, a flicker, but there is nothing – only blank spaces to be covered by paint later. He lets out a sighs and Minho raises a brow at him, questioning.

“They are lovely,” he says with all honesty – he would never lie to him, has no reason to do so, not now, not anymore (not when sincerity brings in more joy; long has been the time when he had so hide and cover his feelings, to conceal them with white little lies, thinking it was best at the time (it never was, it only got him ripen apart)). "They really are," he adds in an afterthought - but Minho knows there is something more. There is a pout, slightly, only appreciated because he knows Jinwoo so well - he can trace his profile in the air, eyes closed, filling the space and colour him in - shades of vibrant navy and soft hues of orange like morning dew, the dark flecks of golden particles swirling inside his eyes, the tender peach that inflames his lips and that tastes the same, bright splashes of yellow among the quietness of the blue ocean, white crescents over crashing waves.

He looks at him morph his lips that curls into a sigh again and he wonders what is going on inside of his precious head, what beats inside of his heart. He knows he won't voice it - he won't want to trouble him, but he is already troubled, worried that he has done something that has upset him, that he has done him wrong.

"What is it?" he asks, tentatively, examining closely the pieces he has handed Jinwoo and that are now layered on his lap. He takes them from him, thumb through them looking for a mistake - has he been too obvious with the characterization? Are the colors chosen too loud? He trusts in Jinwoo's criteria, he will correct it accordingly.

There is a pout, a trembling lip.

"You haven't done mine," Jinwoo breathes and Minho finds it too cute - that Jinwoo is upheaval by this. "You have painted them all but me," he adds, perhaps for emphasis.

"Is that so?" he asks, just to be sure, "but you liked them? Are they good, you think?" and Jinwoo nods, again, prodding his head, dispelling his hair that falls in cascades of brownish red over his eyes, tucking away the gleam of disapproval laced with the clear, watery tone of his words - and Minho feels it coming, a storm of laughter pouring from him to the air. He laughs at the stupidity of the situation, at how ridiculous Jinwoo can be (lovely and sweet and mindful, but, oh so naive and so gullible, so comely and, yet, so easy to fool, so easy to please and to break, to tear up and to mend again - with kisses and promises that he holds dear, written in songs that only he can hear and that are etched at the rhythm of his own heart).

"Yes, they are," he assures him, even though he doesn't need the reassurance - because Minho's art always excels but he is always compliant to buck him up. "I like the small touches like the cameras in Seungyoon's painting; it is very much his spitting image. He will love it. I would love one, too," and he says, his voice lowered, tainted with a drop of jealousy, his gaze averting the painting on Minho's hands, darting from the floor to contemplate the whole room, taking in swifts of turpentine.

"Oh," Minho smiles at him but it is brimmed with sorrow, woefully. He takes his hand, curls his fingers around him, warm and clear, Jinwoo's nails scratching the surface of his skin, rubbing it clean. "You know, darling, that I always want to draw you, but I pour too much into the paintings, too much of what them all mean to me so, imagine... It would be obvious that I am in love with you. And there is no way I could possible conceals it, veil it. I just... can't. If I paint you the image will just reflect my adoration for you, how deep and mad are my affections towards you. They will all know and it would be over for us," he reasons and Jinwoo can only agree with him - can only imagine how endearing would it be, to have Minho put him into a canvas, his artwork a mirror of his soul, to see himself through Minho's eyes and feelings. How sweet would it be to have it pin in the wall, above his bed, framed for only him to see - for only him to feel the feelings embed in it. But he understands - it is simple, after all, knowing that Minho always inserts parts of himself into his portraits, that they always bear bits of his true selves, of his sentiments (either if he is happy or dejected, his art shows it).

"I see..." he says, his forehead an inch from his shoulder, his hair beaming under the light, under his eyes, below his lips and, if he turns around, he would catch them in a kiss - drink the air away, knocking him to the sofa they are both sitting, the drawings completely forgotten (because Jinwoo is here and, how could he possibly concentrate in anything else when he is so close, so soft, so alluring and appealing and willing to be taken away, swept from here to roll on a bed?).

And so he does, the pictures scattered over the floor like rain, Jinwoo pressed between his arms stretched, between his lips just parted to let him in, kissing and marveling at just how pliant Jinwoo is, how perfectly he fits into him - into his embrace, into his soul and heart as if handmade for him.

He is perfectly contented this way, with Jinwoo slowly breathing next to him, his head nestled on his chest, listening to his heart-beats, his lashes closed, casting shadows under his eyelids, splendidly gleaming under the silver beams of the moon and the stars. He is perfectly pleased and satisfied with this - with the way Jinwoo's skin is soft and warm under his caress, how his hair feels like threads of silk, smooth and bright, how his hands always find a way to clasp around his waist, securing him to his side, his mouth gently pressed on his shoulder, kissing the rose itched into his flesh, blue and pink together, - but he has something to do - and he has to do it know before his resolution fades.

He loves to see him sleeping - though he misses him alive, sparkling, always smiling. But it is better this way - it is better because, like this, he can capture him whole, doesn't need to take glimpses, can devour him with one look. The charcoal burns in his hand and he rushes to sketch what his eyes can catch, trapping in all and every detail - every mole and every curb of his face, cupped now over the pillow. He breathes and it tastes like peaches and lilies and his Jinwoo, the feeling of his bones still palpable at the tip of his fingers - slender and sharp, he has counted his ribs and hauled in at his hips to pull him closer, to lure him in.

He traces his face that he knows from memory, and then the rest just follows - the neck, pale and perfect, round, soft shoulders, his chest covered with the cotton sheets, the figure that lies underneath it.

He draws him as he sees him: beautiful and peaceful, an edge of raw passion blurting from beneath, calm and graceful, the color of his thoughts taking shape - taking the shape of his love.

And when Jinwoo wakes up, he finds the bed empty, just a new canvas by his side.

- And when he finds Minho, later on, he cries in his arms, shakily pointing at his own portrait.

"Because you see me so, so beautifully it hurts. Because I can feel the love contained and it is overflowing, overwhelming. But I love you just as much, though I can't write about it or turn it into colors."

"You don't need to," Minho whispers into his open lips, "I already know. I have always known."