“And here’s my card,” The small man is saying (Yifan emphasizes on small, because the burgundy of his locks barely makes it to the middle of Yifan’s chest), placing the pristine business card on the table between them. It reiterates his name (Do Kyungsoo), and lists art citric in beautiful script below. There’s an email, as well as an office number, and in perfect, precise handwriting, is another series of numbers. His personal phone, he tells Yifan.

“Thank you, Kyungsoo. I really appreciate the offer.” And he does. Kyungsoo had seen some of Yifan’s artwork posted on his personal website, and reached out, inviting him for coffee to discuss some slots in an upcoming gallery of his. Excitement vibrates in every fiber of his being, and he can’t wait to return home and go through his collections to find the perfect piece. Or perhaps he’ll paint something new, something worthy of such an honor, something to get his name out there.

“There’s really no need, Yifan.” The man shakes his head, and gently taps on the table with his hand. “I’m surprised no one has made you an offer before. You are truly talented.” Kyungsoo brings the rim of the mug to his pouty mouth and takes a gentle sip of his drink. Yifan briefly wonders if it’s cold, looking down at the watch that adorns his wrist to see they’ve been talking here for an hour.  He’s glad he ordered iced coffee today.

His eyes travel back up to the wide eyes of the other man’s, blinking at him from behind his gold-rimmed circle glasses. He honestly isn’t sure what to say, how he could possibly exhibit his gratitude, when Kyungsoo seems so nonchalant about how life changing this could be. So he doesn’t do anything but given the shorter man a blinding smile and bring the straw of his drink to his lips.

All of a sudden a shrill tone sets off the soft atmosphere, and Kyungsoo is scrambling in his (expensive) suit jacket, fumbling in his pockets and producing his cellphone. He gives Yifan one of those ‘I’m sorry’ looks as he holds the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

Yifan busies himself with stirring this drink, attempting to listen to soft clink of the ice against the plastic instead of accidently listening on the other’s conversation. It’s brisk, and Kyungsoo doesn’t say much until he disconnects and places his phone back into the jacket pocket.

“I hate to vanish so quickly, Yifan, but it appears I’ve had some scheduling issues that my secretary, Sehun, had forgotten to inform me of.” His round eyes roll, and he purses his lips in slight distaste. “Regardless, I enjoyed our meeting today and look forward to seeing more of your work.”

“It’s no problem at all. I know how life gets,” he responds, mild laughter leaving his lips in attempt to lighten the mood. “You go ahead with whatever. I’ll call you when I have some sort of idea what I’d like to place in your show.”

“Excellent,” Kyungsoo says, and the easy smile slides back into place. The shorter male pushes back from the table, straightens his tie and grabs his coffee. “Until next time, Mr. Wu.” And with that, Kyungsoo gives a playful little bow, sending a mocking wink Yifan’s way before heading towards the door of the café.

“Until next time, Mr. Do.” He calls after Kyungsoo, chuckling to himself when the door opens and the man mingles in with the rest of the city’s residents.

Yifan sits now unaccompanied for some moments after, relishing in the encounter before he too gets up, tosses his empty cup in the bin, and makes his way home. His fingers are itching to draw.

///

He doesn’t hear the front door open and close shut. Doesn’t hear footsteps treading up the hardwood stairs, pad along the hall. He doesn’t catch his studio door opening, so caught up in the canvas in front of him, that he almost screams when there’s a warm breath on his neck, and his name being said into his ear.

“Jesus Christ, Tao!” He yells, shaking his head, eyes wide as he spins around on his stool and meets the messy haired blonde. The other’s thick lips are pulled downward, eyebrows cast in dissatisfaction, and Yifan is mentally composing a list of everything he’s ever done wrong in his life to warrant such look from his significant other.

“You didn’t hear me come home?” Zitao asks, and Yifan thanks everything that it’s not exactly something he did wrong, but his apparent negligence at welcoming his boyfriend home from work.

“No baby, I didn’t. I’m so sorry.” He’s spewing, reaching out and wrapping his arms around the backs of Zitao’s knees and propping his chin on the other’s hipbone, looking up into his face. “I was caught up in this painting.” Zitao picks up a hand, and it’s warm as he caresses Yifan’s cheek before going to play in the dark brown strands of his hair. He thinks all is forgiven when it suddenly hits him that he needs to tell Zitao of his amazing opportunity. “You’ll never guess what happened today.” He begins, baiting the other man and waiting for him to ask why.

“Hmm?”

“Please sound more excited. I’m excited.” Yifan finds himself whining slightly, burying his face into the other’s light colored slacks and nuzzling into his thigh.

“Oh dearest Yifan, please inform me of what miraculous thing happened today! I am on the edge of my metaphorical seat, simply holding my breath! Don’t make me wait a moment longer, for I shall surly die!”

The act wins Zitao a pinch to his and an exaggerated sigh.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Zitao’s saying through stifled laughter, wiggling in his boyfriend’s hold. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, and you know we’re getting ready to travel to France to play at the Palais Garnier, and I’m tense, and I’m tired and I really just want yo