You lead his hand to the backrest of the chair and you try not to make a sound of disapproval at the whole situation. You should have been used to it by now. It’s been four Saturdays since he convinced you to go through this whole ordeal.

“I’m ready,” he beams at you and for a moment you forget that you are supposed to be mad at him for this torture.

You move your feet to leave, sure that he could manage with his own devices. How hard could it be? Sitting.

Just a few more Saturdays, a couple more gouache tubes and maybe a couple of broken brushes to every unspoken expletive. How hard could it be? Painting.

You learned how to hold a brush before you learned to say your name. Bang Yong Guk.

"Am I facing the right angle, hyung?"

But it's harder for you; harder than he realizes.

Even so, you mix the colors and glide your brush across the canvass; a round number four. You will need to buy another dozen later, in case he asks again how he looks.

He looks ethereal. Magical. Heavenly. Gossamer like a veil of the finest silk woven by the hands of god himself. But of course he doesn’t know it and you don’t have the words to express it. This is why you're a painter. What you can't say with words, your paint brush shows. This is why you hate yourself and this whole predicament.

The lightest wash of scarlet, over his plump cheeks.

The blue wave rolling on top of his blonde hair.

Burnt umber dancing with raw sienna, bespeckled by viridian, yellow ochre and ultramarine blue; the complexity of his eyes. His eyes. Staring at you blankly, burning a hole to your soul. He doesn’t realize it.

His lips, a shade of pink that no can or tube has, so you have to mix it on your own. You call it Junhong's pink. 준홍의 분홍. Junhong ui bunhong..

It's his favorite color.

"I'll dye my hair pink next month. Noona already agreed to it. You better finish that painting fast." His chuckle ring lightly through the air, like tiny bells peeling.

You glance at the clock, just five more minutes and Sooyoung would be here to pick him up.

You put away the brushes, close the palette, say goodbye to the pinks and blues. Tell him you are done for the day.

You tap the back of his hand but instead of holding on to your arm and standing up, he laces his fingers with yours.

"Why are you frowning, hyung?"

"I'm not frowning."

"I'm blind. Not stupid."

You don’t have any words to say. This is usual. Nevertheless, painful.

"You're my favorite painter." He stands up and puts his palms over your cheeks.

"I'm not that good, really."

"You're better than Salvador Dali, Van Gogh and Picasso."

"You haven's seen any of my paintings."

You pause for a moment. You wish you could take back your words but they already crawled out of your mouth like spiders with their venom.

"I haven't seen any Dali, Van Gogh or Picasso paintings either."

He moves closer and rests his small chin on your shoulder.

"But I can hold you right here and now. That makes you better."

You pull him closer and put a kiss on his favorite color.

This makes things better. This makes you better. This makes you the best.