Chapter Text
The first thing Jungwon noticed about autumn wasn’t the chill in the air or the way the trees on campus bled into shades of copper and gold. It was the light that stretched out, fading earlier and earlier every evening, like even the sun was tired of keeping up with deadlines. He felt a kinship with it, too-bright in the wrong places and dim where he needed focus.
Which was probably why he found himself here again. The small art supply store just off campus had become a second home, the kind of place where the door creaked too loudly when you pushed it open and the shelves seemed older than the city itself. It smelled faintly of paint solvents and paper, a cocktail that most people would wrinkle their noses at but that Jungwon found oddly comforting.
He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, scanning the racks lined with tubes of paint. He already owned half of the shades of blue, and yet none of them felt right. Cobalt was too sharp, ultramarine too bright, cerulean too cheerful. His professor had called the assignment an exploration of emotional landscapes, which Jungwon thought was a pretentious way of saying make something that matters.
And it mattered. This painting was forty percent of his final grade, and as his professor said, with almost alarming brightness, he was “looking forward to it.” Jungwon wasn’t sure whether to feel honored or horrified by the statement.
He picked up a tube of Prussian blue, held it up to the weak light streaming from the window, then set it back down. Wrong. His hands were already smudged with dried paint from this morning, tiny streaks across his knuckles and under his nails that no amount of scrubbing could fully erase. His dorm room was a battlefield of canvases and half-finished sculptures, coffee cups balancing dangerously close to palettes, and the faint chemical tang of solvents that Jake complained about but never really tried to fix.
Here, though, surrounded by neat rows of brushes and pigments, he felt calmer. Like the world slowed down enough for him to breathe. All he had to do was find the perfect blue.
His eyes moved over the rows again, fixating on a small box of oil paints near the bottom shelf. He crouched down, squinting, turning a tube between his fingers as if the right shade would suddenly confess itself if he stared hard enough.
“Back for more emotional support blue, I guess?”
The voice broke through his concentration, low and laced with amusement. Jungwon’s head snapped up, blinking at the figure leaning casually against the end of the aisle.
The guy wore the store’s indigo apron like it was a costume that didn’t quite fit, the name tag clipped at an angle reading Jay . Jungwon had seen him around before, behind the counter, arranging brushes, carrying boxes from the back. Always polite and quick with a smile. But up close, he noticed things that didn’t belong in the tidy little shop, like the slit in his eyebrow, the line of piercings climbing up both ears, and green highlights all over his dark hair. The man looked like he belonged in punk-rock mosh pits instead of under fluorescent bulbs.
He looked out of place, yes, but in the kind of way that made people stare a little longer. Jungwon caught himself doing it too, quickly tearing his gaze back to the shelf.
“I’m just searching for the the right shade,” he muttered, more to the box of paints than to Jay. “None of these are working.”
Jay pushed off the shelf, walking closer. “Sounds serious. Life-or-death shade of blue?”
“It’s for a painting.” Jungwon stood, dusting off his hands like the faint specks of dust mattered. “My final project. Counts for almost half my grade.”
Jay whistled softly. “Oh, so it’s emotional support blue and GPA support blue.”
Jungwon huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, then immediately regretted it when he saw Jay’s grin widen, as if he’d won some kind of prize. He shoved the tube of paint into his basket before the guy could say something else clever.
“I’ll just take this one,” he said quickly, heading for the counter. He didn’t have time for distractions, especially ones with pierced ears and green-tipped hair. Pretty boys that looked kinda dangerous were the last thing he needed.
Jay scanned the tube, tapping a rhythm against the counter with his fingers. “See you next time, then.”
Jungwon only nodded, sliding cash across the counter, before stepping back out into the late afternoon light, paint tube in hand.
By the time Jungwon trudged back across campus, the sky had already slipped into that fragile shade between blue and gray. He pushed open the door to his dorm room with his shoulder, the smell of acrylics spilling out before him like a guilty secret.
Jake called it the battlefield, and honestly, he wasn’t wrong. Two canvases leaned precariously against the wall, one of them abandoned halfway through, a smear of rejected blue slashing across its center. The desk was buried under brushes, sketchbooks, and a coffee mug that had definitely been clean sometime last week. His bed was even worse, a jacket tossed over crumpled sheets, one of his palettes balanced on the nightstand dangerously close to staining his blanket.
“Dude,” Jake groaned from his side of the room, where everything was somehow neat despite sharing space with a chaos gremlin. He sat cross-legged on his bed, bass guitar propped against his knee. “I think your paint water is evolving into a new species.”
Jungwon dumped his bag onto his chair, ignoring him. He pulled out the tube of Prussian blue and uncapped it, squeezing a careful line onto his palette. The color was dark, almost velvety under the lamplight. It looked promising.
He mixed, tested it on a scrap of canvas, then frowned. Too cold. The brush strokes sat flat against the white surface, lifeless, like the shade had swallowed everything instead of giving it depth.
With a soft curse under his breath, Jungwon tossed the brush back onto the palette. Wrong again.
Jake plucked a string on his bass, eyes flicking toward him. “Is that the holy grail shade you’ve been hunting for?”
“No,” Jungwon muttered, scrubbing his paint-stained hands against a rag. “Not even close.”
“Man, at this rate you’re gonna single-handedly fund that store’s entire rent.”
Jungwon didn’t answer, but Jake wasn’t entirely wrong. He’d already been there three times this week, and each time he swore it would be the last. Each time he walked away with another tube that wasn’t it.
He sank into his chair, staring at the half-finished canvas across from him. The assignment loomed heavy in his chest, the professor’s expectant smile and his own gnawing fear of falling short. His fingers itched to try again, but the thought of dragging another wrong shade across the canvas made his stomach twist.
Behind him, Jake hummed softly as he played a riff, the low notes vibrating through the room. It should’ve been soothing really, but instead it made Jungwon close his eyes and admit for the first time that maybe he was running out of time.
The new blue sat on his palette like an accusation, glistening wet under the lamplight. Jungwon twirled the brush between his fingers, eyes tracing the dried streaks of color that had built up along the wooden handle over the semester. He pressed the bristles into the paint, dragged a stroke across the canvas, then leaned back to study it.
He’d been telling himself for days that it was just the shade. That the elusive, perfect blue was out there somewhere, waiting to click into place and unlock the whole piece. But tonight, staring at the canvas with the hum of Jake’s bass in the background, he felt a different suspicion gnawing at him.
What if it wasn’t the color at all?
What if the thing missing wasn’t on the shelf of a store, but in him? His hand, his vision, his ability to capture what he wanted. He thought again about what his professor had warned them about. It was more than a simple painting. Emotional landscapes was about pouring yourself into the canvas, but Jungwon wasn’t sure what of himself he was pouring in besides stress and caffeine. He wanted the painting to feel alive, but all it did was sit there, flat and stubbornly silent.
He set the brush down and scrubbed his hands over his face, smearing faint blue across his cheek without realizing.
The next morning, he went about his routine as if the thought hadn’t followed him into his dreams. Classes, sketches in the margins of his notes, quick lunches with his best friend Sunoo where most of the conversation was just his animated storytelling about rehearsals while Jungwon smiled and nodded in all the right places. But his mind kept circling back.
Between lectures, he sat on the grass outside the arts building, watching people crisscross the quad. He sketched quick figures in his notebook, messy outlines of strangers he’d never known. A girl balancing coffee and her phone, a guy with headphones too big for his head, a couple laughing with their foreheads nearly touching. All of them felt more alive in his lines than the canvas waiting in his room.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He could catch life in scraps, in fleeting observations. But when it came to putting himself onto something that mattered, everything turned stiff.
Jungwon shut the notebook with a sigh, sliding it into his bag. He told himself he’d try again later, maybe after dinner, maybe after some sleep. But he knew the canvas would still be waiting, quiet and empty.
And he knew, too, that sooner or later, he’d find himself back in that little store, fingers brushing rows of blue while someone leaned against the counter with a grin like he had all the time in the world.
The bell above the door chimed as Jungwon stepped inside again. And this time it wasn’t even about the paint since he had more than enough tubes piled on his desk, a graveyard of failed attempts. But the silence of the dorm had grown almost unbearable, and the idea of being surrounded by brushes and colors, even if only for a while, felt like paradise.
The store smelled the same as always, new paper and the faint bite of solvents. Familiar and soothing. He drifted down the aisles with no real goal in mind, fingers brushing over sketchpads, jars of charcoal, a set of pastels he didn’t need but wanted anyway.
“You’re here again,” a voice drawled from somewhere behind him. “Careful, at this rate I’m gonna start thinking you come here just to see me.”
Jungwon turned, already half-expecting it. Jay was leaning against the counter this time, arms folded across his chest. The green tips of his hair caught the fluorescent light, his eyebrow slit looked sharper up close and his grin was annoyingly easy.
“I’m not looking for anything today,” Jungwon said before Jay could push the thought further.
“Oh?” Jay tilted his head, as if genuinely intrigued. “So you’re here just for the vibes, then? Can’t blame you. Nothing like a Saturday morning date with acrylics and sketchpads.”
Jungwon huffed out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head as he turned back toward the shelves. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you still come back every week…” Jay shot back, voice warm with amusement.
Jungwon picked up a pack of charcoal pencils, turning it in his hands just for something to do. “I like the quiet,” he said simply.
Jay raised an eyebrow. “Funny, my friends say I am pretty loud.”
Jungwon put the pencils back on the shelf, not rising to the bait. He wasn’t immune to the charm, to be honest, it was hard not to notice the way Jay carried himself, confident without trying too hard, like the whole world was just another stage for him. But right now, Jungwon didn’t have the energy to indulge it. Pretty boys with quick grins weren’t going to fix his painting.
“See you around,” Jungwon said finally, adjusting the strap of his bag and turning around without looking back.
Jay gave a small, mock salute from behind the counter, still grinning as if he hadn’t lost the round at all. “Oh, I definitely will.”
The bell chimed again as Jungwon slipped back outside, clutching nothing but his own restless thoughts.
The smell of fried food clung to the air as Jungwon slid into the booth across from Sunoo. The diner was buzzing with weekend chatter and clinking cutlery, bursts of laughter from a table of theater kids a few booths down, and the low hum of music playing from an old speaker above the counter.
Sunoo was already halfway through his plate of fries, one hand animatedly scrolling through his phone as he launched into a story about rehearsal. Jungwon listened with half a smile, his mind drifting until Sunoo caught him staring absently at his untouched glass of soda.
“Okay,” Sunoo said, narrowing his eyes. “You’re doing that thing where your body’s here but your brain is somewhere else probably painting sad abstract shapes.”
“I’m fine,” Jungwon muttered, stabbing a fry with more force than necessary.
Sunoo leaned forward, chin in hand, grin forming like he already knew he’d hit a nerve. “Spill it.”
Jungwon hesitated, then sighed. “Okay… So there's this guy. At the art supply store.”
“Ohhh,” Sunoo drawled, dragging the sound out like he’d just struck gold. “A guy. Continue.”
“He works there,” Jungwon went on, ignoring the way Sunoo was already wiggling his brows. “I’ve seen him a few times. He… talks a lot. And flirts, I think.”
“You think?” Sunoo gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his mouth. “Is he subtle or are you just oblivious?”
Jungwon smirked despite himself. “He’s not subtle. At all. It’s just—” he paused, searching for the right words, “He’s kind of… distracting. And I don’t have time for distractions right now.”
Sunoo snorted, stealing one of Jungwon’s fries without asking. “Let me guess. He’s cute.”
Jungwon rolled his eyes, which was answer enough.
“Called it.” Sunoo grinned, victorious. “What’s he like? Do I get to imagine a matcha latte tote bag boy type? Or more of a… mysterious guy who secretly writes poetry in his notebook vibe?”
Jungwon thought back to the green tips of Jay’s hair, the row of piercings, the eyebrow slit, the way he grinned like nothing could touch him even in the most boring uniform. “Definitely not a matcha latte boy.”
Sunoo hummed, leaning back with a satisfied smile. “So… exactly your type.”
“He’s not my type,” Jungwon argued, a little too quickly.
“Sure,” Sunoo said, dragging the word with practiced dramatics. “And you’re just going back to that store every other day because you’re so passionate about buying the entire spectrum of blue.”
Jungwon opened his mouth, then closed it. Sunoo’s smirk widened.
“I knew it,” he declared. “Jungwon, you’re so screwed.”
Jungwon groaned, covering his face with his hands while Sunoo’s laughter rang out across the table, far too pleased with himself.
The week passed in fragments.
Monday bled into Tuesday in a haze of lectures, sketchbook doodles, and cups of bitter coffee gulped down between classes. The campus felt busier than usual, everyone running on nerves and deadlines as finals closed in. And of course Jungwon wasn’t immune to it all. His professor’s words echoed with every brush stroke he laid down: forty percent, I’m expecting great things from you.
Great things. As if greatness was something you could summon on command.
By Wednesday, his desk was unrecognizable beneath the layers of chaos. Brushes sat in murky water jars he kept forgetting to change, and scraps of paper with trial swatches of blue littered the floor. He was confident in trying again that night. Mixing, layering, stepping back, frowning. But the more he worked on it, the more the canvas stared at him like a riddle he couldn’t solve.
Jake poked his head in at one point, towel still slung around his shoulders from practice. “Wonie, please don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, glancing at the canvas, “but it kinda looks the same as yesterday.”
Jungwon groaned and threw the rag he’d been wiping his hands with in Jake’s direction. Jake only laughed, catching it with ease before retreating to his side of the room.
By Thursday, the exhaustion caught up with him. He found himself in the library, head pillowed on his arms over an open book he hadn’t turned a page of in half an hour. Sunoo slid into the seat across from him without warning, tossing down his tote bag with all the grace of a stage actor making an entrance.
“You look like a tragic hero,” Sunoo announced. “Overworked, underappreciated, probably dying of something stupid.”
Jungwon cracked one eye open. “I’m fine.”
“You’re suffering,” Sunoo corrected, pulling out his notes in a flourish. “And all for what? The perfect painting?”
Jungwon groaned again, dropping his head back into his arms. “Don’t start.”
But Sunoo didn’t need to. The thought was already there, circling in Jungwon’s mind no matter where he went. He felt stuck, his grade loomed heavy on his shoulders, and somewhere at the edges of it all there were still thoughts about the boy at the store, with his grin and his pierced ears and his ridiculous comments about emotional support blue.
It was already Friday, and after another fruitless attempt at layering different shades, Jungwon finally pushed back from the desk. He stared at the canvas, the muddled mess of brush strokes that refused to come alive, and felt a sharp twist of frustration in his chest.
Maybe it was hopeless. Maybe he was missing whatever spark his professor kept insisting was supposed to be there.
Or maybe, he needed another walk down those aisles, another brush with the rows of colors, another chance to figure out what he was chasing.
He grabbed his jacket before he could think too hard about it.
And by the time the bell above the store chimed again, Jungwon was already rehearsing in his head how he’d convince himself this trip was purely academic.
He had promised himself he would wait at least until the weekend, and see if the painting would come together with the shades he already had. But his hand had betrayed him, tugging his jacket on and steering him back down the familiar street, back into the smell of paper and pigment and the faint hum of the old ceiling fan that always seemed to run even in the cooler weather.
And, of course, Jay was there behind the counter.
He noticed him immediately, leaned casually against the desk with a pencil in hand like he had been pretending to write something down just for the sake of looking busy. When their eyes met, a slow smile spread over his face.
“Back again?” Jay’s voice carried that same teasing lilt, like he was already in on a joke Jungwon hadn’t agreed to. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out of emotional support blue already. That would be… concerning.”
Jungwon exhaled through his nose, scanning the shelves as if he hadn’t come in here half for this conversation alone. “I didn’t come for paint this time.”
That seemed to surprise him. Jay straightened, pencil tapping against the countertop. “Oh? That’s new. What is it then? Brushes? Canvas? My company?”
Jungwon turned sharply toward the racks, pretending to be invested in a set of sketchbooks. His ears, unfortunately, burned warm. “You talk too much for someone working in an art supply store.”
Jay laughed softly, and it was annoyingly warm, like the sound filled the corners of the space. “Someone has to keep the silence interesting. Unless you prefer to shop in complete monk-like focus?”
Jungwon chewed at the inside of his cheek, telling himself not to smile, not to let the corner of his mouth betray him. He finally picked up a sketchbook, flipping through the thick pages like he actually needed it. “I’m just trying to get my project done,” he said, quieter this time. “Finals are coming. It’s not exactly the time to…” He faltered, searching for the right word.
“To flirt back?” Jay offered smoothly, leaning forward on his elbows.
Jungwon snapped the sketchbook shut a little too loudly. “I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you thought it,” Jay countered, a glint in his eyes that told Jungwon this was a game he had no chance of winning if he stayed too long.
But still… he didn’t move right away. His fingers lingered against the cool paper of the book, his eyes flicking to the slits in Jay’s eyebrow, the mismatched earrings dangling against the lights. The uniform still looked wrong on him, but somehow less jarring now, like Jungwon was starting to expect him to be here in it, like part of the store’s strange aesthetic.
He placed the sketchbook on the counter. Jay rang it up without breaking eye contact. For a moment, there was no banter or words, just the faint whir of the receipt printer and the brush of Jay’s rings against the keys.
“Good luck with your finals,” Jay said finally, sliding the bag across to him. The tone was softer now, but the smile was still there. “Not that you need it. You strike me as the type who stresses more than enough to make up for any lack of luck.”
Jungwon narrowed his eyes, but he took the bag, clutching it tighter than necessary. “Thanks, I guess.”
“Anytime,” Jay said, with that infuriating ease again, like he had all the time in the world for this.
The bell chimed again when Jungwon left, and the cool air outside hit him sharper than usual. He told himself he was relieved to be out, relieved to have escaped whatever that conversation had been. But halfway down the block, he caught himself replaying it anyway, the edges of Jay’s grin slipping uninvited into his mind.
Jungwon barely made it half a block before he heard his name being shouted from beind his back.
“Yang Jungwon!”
He froze.
Slowly, he turned around and there Sunoo was, standing a few steps away with a bag slung over his shoulder and a look on his face that could only be described as dangerous. The kind that meant Jungwon had already lost, he just didn’t know what or how yet.
“What are you doing here?” Jungwon asked, already suspicious.
Sunoo’s eyes flicked past him, straight to the art supply store behind his back. Then back to Jungwon. Then back to the store again.
“…Why are you here again?” Sunoo asked sweetly.
“I was just—” Jungwon started, then stopped himself. He cleared his throat. “Running errands.”
Sunoo hummed, slow and deliberate. “Interesting. Because this is the third time this week I’ve seen you mysteriously ‘running errands’ in this exact direction.”
Jungwon shifted his weight, gripping the strap of his backpack. “I needed a sketchbook.”
Sunoo raised an eyebrow. “You have over 20 sketchbooks.”
“I just needed another one, okay.”
“Then why,” Sunoo said, stepping closer, lowering his voice like he was about to deliver a dramatic monologue, “you look… suspiciously flustered.”
“I do not,” Jungwon snapped, a second too late.
Sunoo’s grin spread instantly. “Oh my god.”
Jungwon groaned, tilting his head back. “Please don’t start.”
“So,” Sunoo said, linking his arm through Jungwon’s before he could escape, “were you there for the book, or for the boy?”
Jungwon opened his mouth to deny it. Closed it. Sighed.
“…I told you about the guy who works there,” he admitted, staring very hard at the pavement. “He’s annoying.”
Sunoo gasped. “Annoying. Oh, I see.”
“He keeps flirting with me,” Jungwon added quickly, like that explained everything. “And I don’t have time for that right now.”
“Mhm,” Sunoo nodded, far too knowingly. “And that’s why you keep going back.”
Jungwon stopped walking. Sunoo stopped with him, eyes bright, waiting.
“I didn’t go back for him,” Jungwon said. Then, quieter, “…I just didn’t mind that he was there.”
Sunoo made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a victorious laugh. “Alright I heard everything I needed to.”
Before Jungwon could react, Sunoo grabbed his wrist. “We’re going out tonight.”
“What?” Jungwon blinked. “No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are,” Sunoo said firmly. “I know just the place. Live music, decent drinks, very cathartic atmosphere.”
“I have finals,” Jungwon protested weakly.
“Exactly,” Sunoo countered. “You need to get your head away from this project—” he poked Jungwon’s chest, “and this guy.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” Sunoo interrupted. “And if you don’t come willingly, I will emotionally blackmail you using embarrassing childhood stories.”
Jungwon groaned again, dragging a hand down his face. He really was too tired to fight this. And maybe… maybe a night out wouldn’t hurt. Maybe stepping away would make things clearer.
“Fine,” he muttered. “But I’m not staying out late.”
Sunoo beamed, already victorious. “You say that every time.”
As they started walking again, Jungwon glanced back once at the art store behind them.
He told himself he was relieved to be leaving it behind for the night. He told himself a lot of things he didn’t believe in anyways.