Work Text:
"What do you think the colour of love is?"
The question is so abrupt that Gyuvin jolts awake, the book that had been folded across his face slips and flops down onto the floor from the movement. The leather of the sofa screeches under the weight of Gyuvin's hands as he sits up to peer at the source of the voice that had disturbed his peaceful nap.
In the corner, Ricky sits pin straight on his painting stool as he stares blankly at his sketched canvas, unblinking, his lips still agape from the question that spilled out into the stillness of the room and agitated even the thin layer of dust that had settled in the serene of the early evening. The room, filled with an accompaniment of candlelight casts a faint glow that illuminates their bodies from opposite sides, Ricky's corner full of mis-matched candlesticks stuck into old bottles with wax that drips down the sides like teardrops—the wax crying out as it burns and runs from the flame.
"Isn’t it red?" Gyuvin whispers into the room, uncertain. "Like, it's red because a heart has blood, right?"
Ricky turns to look at Gyuvin from across his shoulder, the bridge of his nose cutting light and carving a shadow of his features into the wall behind, the shadow of his lips dancing across the wall as he replies, "But does love only come from the heart?" The paintbrush in Ricky's hand, unloaded and unmoving, finally rests against the shelf of the easel as he continues to ponder. "Doesn't love grow from the soul?"
"Well, I guess it depends on who and how they choose to love." Gyuvin offers as an answer.
Ricky only blinks.
Then, "I want to paint our love, but I can't figure out the colours."
Gyuvin, intrigued by the underlying call for help, finally stands and moves over to shadow behind Ricky, hands settling on his shoulders and offering a squeeze to his taut muscles to relieve some stress. They've been here for hours, Gyuvin reading his book to accompany Ricky while he paints, yet it seems he still hasn't made any progress from his outline sketch that he had drawn out just yesterday.
"How about," Gyuvin starts as he leans over to inspect the colour options on the table next to Ricky's easel stand, he selects a colour to dip his finger into. "We start off simple." The red against his finger screams blood and as it smears onto the mixing board in Ricky's other hand, he can see the lightbulb ping above Ricky's brain as a thought turns into an idea.
"Red for blood, as it pumps around our bodies and hearts that we give to each other." Ricky smiles as he says the words, sudden inspiration lighting up his face and smoothing the previous tension away.
Gyuvin hums in encouragement, his eyes looking for the next colour to add to the board.
Ricky beats him to it. "Pink, to mix with red for the fruit you buy for me that I adore." The pink swirls and mixes from Ricky's finger, creating a hue of crimson on the board that beautifully gleams against the wood. Taking some more red, Ricky adds a separate pool of paint to another section of his board and quickly adds in some more of the pink, attempting to create even more of the crimson love-blend.
"I would say red suits us well, don't you think?" Ricky smiles to himself. "The colour of luck and good fortune, and you're lucky to have me."
"It's intense, like how I am with you, and passionate too." Gyuvin adds. Their intensity with one another is mutual, a moth drawn to a flame that fixates on the spark of light that flickers and dances to the feeling of being hypnotised with just one glance, the need to just get that little bit closer to the burn of desire. "But then you add in some pink, and it adds a charm of sweetness and tenderness. It's intimate."
"Well, we both know that's your favourite." Ricky chuckles.
"Kim Ricky, enough cheek and focus."
The two have a quiet moment while they ponder and reminisce of past moments of their relationship, fond memories flashing under the surface of their eyes and pulling at their mouths to form the most gentle of mirrored smiles.
"Do you have purple?" Gyuvin suddenly surges forward with a memory and feeling in mind, moving from behind Ricky to get a closer look at his vast collection. A plum shade calls out to him, a shade similar to the image that paints Gyuvin’s eyelids at every blink. A memory so embedded and sealed with a resin produced from the deepest and most despaired part of his brain—untouchable and protected ferociously.
Ricky watches with wonder as Gyuvin takes charge to mix in purple with the blob of red and pink, almost furiously swirling his finger to messily mix a concoction of his feelings poured out in a deep shade of fuchsia. He adds a hint of white—barely a drop—which lightens the colour just a fraction.
It’s so mesmerising, to be an artist and to watch another create pure art in front of his very own eyes, a blur of raw feeling and emotion poured out in front of him and it hasn’t even reached the canvas yet. It’s as though Gyuvin has delved deep to rip open their hearts and souls to finger paint with strokes of chaos and determination.
“Why the purple?” Ricky finally asks.
“Because my life is rich with you in it, my very own muse.”
Ricky finally knows what to do. “Give me your hand.” He pleads, he needs to do this now while his heart is still ripped open and flooding the floor beneath them. Gyuvin watches with a bizarre expression as Ricky takes Gyuvin’s hand so tenderly, and dips it carefully into the puddle of colour before smearing it across his canvas.
And he paints.