Chapter Text
“And then he had the audacity to call me cynical!”
Your hands gesture around wildly. Joshua, turning around to check his blind spot, exhales in disbelief.
You were so enthralled in your summary (well, rant is a more appropriate descriptor, Joshua thinks) of the nightmare meeting with Minghao you just had, that you didn’t even realise you already reached your dorm. Has Joshua even had a chance to say a word yet?
Nevertheless, you go on.
“Can you believe that? I mean, jeez, I don’t care what people think about my degree, but who talks to another person like that? Unbelievable… I’ve never met a person with such an insane superiority complex before.”
Joshua is finally offered an opportunity to speak as he pulls into the closest parking space to your door, “Sounds like it was a disaster, to say the least.”
“That’s definitely saying the least.”
“Are you planning to pull out of this project then? Or see it through?”
“I don’t know,” you groan, “I kind of need this.”
Joshua turns off the engine and turns to face you, “It’ll be okay. I’m sure of it. It’ll be over in a week and then you’ll be able to ignore Xu Minghao all you like.”
You hum, “I guess so… God, I don’t even wanna hear his name.”
Joshua chuckles, “Alright, well, I’ve gotta head off now. Good luck with he-who-will-not-be-named.”
You thank him, heading off to your room with a wave and a promise of owing him a favour. Vernon will be the next victim to your anti-Minghao propaganda train.
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By the time a couple days pass, you’ve lightened up about the whole situation.
Kind of.
Everyone you know—besides your parents, God knows you’d never contact them willingly—has heard about your ‘enemy’ Minghao and how far up his ass he is. Okay, maybe you were being a bit dramatic, but who could blame you? You basically retold the events verbatim to everyone, and they all agreed that he was an asshole. You were almost one second away from going on Reddit with a post titled ‘AITA for providing my college project partner with honest feedback?’
Vernon had to wrangle your phone out of your hands to delete the draft himself. Killjoy.
Today was spent finishing up the final touches on the PowerPoint. Researching the use of art in business was a harrowing ordeal; you found it exceptionally difficult to present the benefits of integrating art into anything after the damned café meeting. It’s not like you disagree, anyone would prefer to work in an aesthetically pleasing environment—you just can’t deal with the concept of agreeing with Minghao.
Despite having to fight your petty biases, the PowerPoint came out pretty well. You changed the colours and layout to something more ‘professional’, and even found time to finish writing up speaker notes for both you and Minghao.
You wanted to be the bigger person. That’s all! He has to write his own description for whatever his painting will be anyway!
By 9 o’clock, you’re comfortably wrapped up in your bed; freshly showered, vitamin C face mask on, bowl of fruit salad in hand. It’s going to be a real good night, you think.
Keyword 'think'. Because what ‘enemy’ who lives up to their name would let you have a good night, right?
You’re scouring a free film site (because you’d never pay for a streaming service under a student’s budget) when your phone vibrates. Assuming it’s Vernon passive aggressively reminding you to wash your dishes, or maybe just an advert from the 10 random games you downloaded while bored out of your mind in lectures, you pick up the phone without second thought.
You’re met with the devil himself plaguing your lockscreen.
‘There’s a problem. Call me asap’
You freeze, only moving after 30 seconds or so to finish chewing the strawberry in your mouth. You had this whole thing planned out: at most, the two of you may exchange a couple texts to confirm you finished your part of the project, then you’ll do the stupid presentation and never talk again.
So what problem is dire enough for him to need you to help? Surely he’d be too proud to even admit he has one?
A sadistic part of you wants to ignore the message and let him fuck up the presentation. A slightly less sadistic part wants to ignore the message until the morning, letting panic eat him up for the rest of the night while you spend yours in self-care bliss.
But there’s a smaller part of you, a louder one, that wants to know. It takes over, and after a few minutes of inner turmoil, you betray your morals to commit a grand gesture of self-sabotage by opening up Minghao’s contact, and pressing ‘call’.
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‘im here’
You shove your phone back into your pocket. You’re stood outside a small apartment complex, debating on whether or not to just turn tail and run while you can.
But you can’t. Because you’re an idiot.
An idiot who told Xu Minghao they’d help him finish his fucking painting.
He sounded frustrated, when you called him last night—not at you, believe it or not, but at his fourth discarded canvas. He described his ideas as lacking inspiration, no true portrayals of the artwork’s potential, as well as his own.
You said he’s just out of his element, that he jumped to criticising what he didn’t understand and that you were right all along. He said he’s just lacking a muse, and that your ‘particular perspective’ might help push things along.
You told him to just admit that he was wrong. He wouldn’t, but he had already lost enough dignity to ask you to come over. So, here you are, shifting around outside his apartment building like a dog tied to a fence, waiting for its owner to come out of the store.
An elderly woman appears around the corner, donning a pink puffer coat and a deep smile. Her smile brightens further upon meeting your eye, “Forgotten your key? Happens to me weekly!”
You giggle shyly, “Ah, no—I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh!” she leans back, eyebrow raised in lighthearted confusion, “Mister Boo, I assume? A popular one, he is.”
“Oh, no, I’m waiting for Xu Minghao, if you know him...?”
She pauses, squinting her eyes before slowly nodding.
“Well! Is that so?” she exclaims, as she punches in the code to open the door, “How silly of him to leave you out here in the cold. Come on in love, you can bang on his door yourself.”
A bit naïve, you think, for her to just let a stranger in like that, but maybe you just have a friendly, do-gooder face.
“You do know him then?” you ask, holding open the door for her to walk in through first.
“Of course! He’s in the one across from me. Sweet boy, just quiet…” She heads towards the hallway stairs, motioning for you to follow. “Forgive me for assuming, but you two are lovers, yes?”
Huh?
“I—er…”
She lets out a slow, hearty laugh, “No, no, ignore me… I’m prying. I’m just happy to see him with friends.”
You don’t say anything for the rest of the hike up the staircase, rendered completely speechless from the woman’s comments. Lovers? Really? And why didn’t you deny it?!
The two of you eventually reach Minghao’s apartment after some short small talk, wishing each other well before she heads into her own. With a deep sight and sweaty palms, you knock on the door.
Nothing.
You knock again. This time, you hear movement from within. The grey door swings wide open, knocking something out of view over with a clank.
Minghao swears under his breath, “It’s like everything’s going wrong…”
He looks… interesting. His glasses have been discarded (they were just for decoration before, then), his hair is a tad messier, brushed away from his eyes. What you unconsciously fixate on first, though, is the specks and marks of paint scattered across his skin. The apron he’s donning seems have failed at keeping its wearer clean, but he doesn’t look… too terrible. Objectively speaking, he at least looks like the textbook definition of a romanticised tortured artist.
Not that you’re romanticising him or anything! You’re just giving him credit where credit’s due!
“Well,” you shrug, “I’m here in your apartment. It can’t really get worse from here.”
“Hm.”
You step in, taking off your shoes. You steal a couple glances as he leans down, picking up what looks to be a bottle of wine. He brings it up towards the window, its foil cap shimmering in the sunlight before sighing.
“Looks fancy.” You comment, unsure whether you meant it as a dig or a genuine observation. Regardless, he replies in earnest.
“You can have some, if you want.”
“Oh, um,” you pause, suddenly self-conscious, “No, it’s fine. Looks expensive.”
He doesn’t listen, grabbing two glasses off the counter, “I’ll need to use it up anyway, the bottle cracked. Unless you don’t drink?”
You rub your arm. “No, I do.”
“Perfect.” He hands you a glass while taking a sip of his own. You expect him to pretentiously ramble about the wine’s texture, aroma, aftertaste, flavour notes, then chastise you for not knowing wine-tasting terminology—but he doesn’t. He just sighs again, sounding more tired than the last, and turns around to face the back corner of the room.
You turn to match his gaze and finally take a moment to look around his home. You wonder if it looks like this on most days, with heavily frayed brushes and bottles of paint in every colour obstructing 70% of the floor, canvases of various sizes piled up around a large easel.
A silence passes over the room, calm and uncertain. Minghao rubs his temple.
“I’ve gone through four different drafts, and none of them work.”
You blink, thinking carefully about what to say, for once. Minghao pisses you off, it’s true, but you’re not evil. You have enough emotional intelligence to discern that he’s stressed, one more discarded draft away from being at the end of his tether. You don’t like him, but you don’t feel a need to treat him like he killed your family.
“Show me.” you say, softly but without condescension.
“They’re not good.”
“Anyone would think that after sweating over them for half a week.”
He bites the inside of his cheek. He seems also be struggling with his own internal dialogue, and the only assumption that comes to mind is that he may be unsure about whether you’d make fun of him or not. Nervous about it, even.
Yet you try to pull your mind away from this narrative, there’s no way he’d actually care about what you think anyway.
But if that were the case, why would he invite you over?
“Truthfully… I’ve never painted before, so I’m probably not the best person for you to ask.”
“Seriously? Never?” he turns to face you, eyes peering through his fringe.
“Well, of course I've tried to, but that was when I was a kid...”
“Why did you stop? You can always pick it back up again.”
“I don’t really have time,” you brush his advice off, “Plus, I’d hardly be good at it.”
“You have time,” he insists, shaking his head, “And art is subjective, I don’t agree with the idea that art can be graded based on technicalities. A talented artist is one who can make others feel something from their work, whatever it may be. You could find a hyperrealisic portrait and it might still have no soul.”
He’s rambling, sounding as ostentatious as usual again. You feel a small urge to roll your eyes but decide against it.
"Well, if art is so subjective, let me have my own subjective opinion on your drafts, then."
He sighs in defeat, kneeling in front of one of the haphazardly placed piles of canvases, and you do the same. They’re all set face-down, like he didn't ever want to look at them, and you watch as he reveals each canvas, one by one.
All the pieces are obviously unfinished, but the idea behind it is still evident. The first is of geometric shapes, in muted blues, greys, and whites, like something you’d see in Silicon Valley. The second is bolder, with brighter colours and more abstract, pure sensation for the sake of it. He seemed to have tried taking a different approach with the third, a realistic scene of an open field promoting freedom but coming off more like a carrot being dangled in front of a horse—out of reach.
They’re not anywhere near as bad as he made them out to be. You actually think they’re really good. You’re no expert on paintings—or art at all, on that matter—but you don’t have to be a chef to know if you like the food.
The fourth one is also very different, but enough to make your breath hitch. It’s the least finished looking out of all of them, but that’s not what makes you stop. Its primarily empty, the whole canvas swallowed in dark blue and black. There are outlines of what looks to be office furniture, messily sketched with no real sense of depth.
“Minghao…” his name slips from your tongue by accident, but you’re too stunned to care, “This one is beautiful…”
“What are you saying? This is easily the worst one, it’s not even finished. Look at the—"
For the next five minutes he rants frustratedly, calling it “meaningless” when to you... it’s anything but.
To you, it looks like a memory, or even your future. Looking at it, you feel a sense of familiarity; you have felt just as small and unfinished as this painting, when your parents would emphasise again and again that this is where you’re supposed to be, leaving you with nothing else left to show.
After Minghao's monologue of self-criticism, something dawns on you—you’ve both been thinking about this all wrong.
“This… This is what I meant back at the café.” you declare, pointing at the last painting.
His head tilts, mouth opening to say something, but the words don’t come out. You don’t know it yet, but he’s scared that the moment of authenticity being shared between you two means nothing. The quarrel at the café was stupid, and he was hoping to patch things up by inviting you over in a time of vulnerability, but if you’re still so intent on winning the argument then this was all for naught.
“I… didn’t mean to insinuate that art has no place in a business setting,” you begin, “I wasn’t asking you to make art that loses itself to what businesses want.”
His anxiety settles upon hearing your words. He doesn’t say anything, no snarky rebuttals, no attempts at cutting you off. Rather, he continues to fully face you, listening intently.
“You proved your own point, too,” you gesture towards the fourth painting, “At the café, you said if people didn’t get it, that wasn’t the work’s fault. And maybe that’s true. But what was it you said earlier? That artistic talent comes from the viewer feeling something?”
You shuffle towards the fourth painting, “The first thing I thought about this one was not the colour choices or the adaptability. The only thing I could think about was how it made me feel.”
He looks away from you, slowly averting his gaze towards the painting he hated so passionately but you loved. He doesn’t ask how you feel—not because he doesn’t want to know, he definitely does; he wants to climb into your mind and see the beauty he’s struggling to find.
“You got in my head a bit, at the café,” he murmurs, voice quiet and hesitant as he contemplates his words, “I tried to make something I’m used to, and when that didn’t feel right, I tried making something I thought would be more adaptable to you told me a business would want.”
“And…?” you grin, teasingly.
“You were right.”
He smiles back—a beautiful sight, you think, in this atmosphere. He doesn’t grace you with it for long, turning away from your proud eyes, embarrassed.
To your surprise, you don’t feel triumphant, or like you’ve finally won the argument. You just feel… relieved. Like a new leaf has been turned over between the two of you.
“I guess we were both being a little dramatic,” you purse your lips, “I thought petty fights like this would end in high school.”
He looks you up and down, slowly, then at the paintings lined up beside you two.
“I… think I have an idea for the final painting.”