His room smelled like sleep and old paint. The ceiling fan ticked overhead, stirring the warm air just enough to move the dust motes drifting through the amber light from the bare bulb. Phuwin stood at the foot of his bed, canvas propped on the easel he'd dragged up from the storage room last night, still smelling faintly of turpentine and Godji's cleaning supplies. His phone felt heavy in his pocket, Pond's voice still warm in his chest.
He pulled it out. Unlocked it. Found the photo, taken just 5 days ago at the party: Pond's arm around his shoulder, his own hand holding a camera out, the shirt hanging loose and the crocs with their ridiculous charms catching the light. In the image, Pond was kissing his cheek, mouth soft against the curve of his jaw, and Phuwin was laughing, eyes crinkled, the gold chain slipping sideways.
He propped the phone against a jar of brushes on the windowsill. The screen faced him, a tiny lit window into that moment. Then he turned to the canvas.
Sixty inches of white. Gessoed, primed, waiting. The blankness stared back at him like a held breath, patient and merciless. He could still walk away, could still text Professor Sminkinaelyl and say actually, I'll just submit the water paintings and take the late penalty. The festival was in two days. He'd already done twelve pieces. He could—
No.
He picked up the brush. The bristles were dry, stiff, untouched. He dipped them into the jar of water, watched them bloom and soften, then into the first smear of ultramarine on his palette.
The tip touched the canvas. A single line, curved and tentative, like the edge of a smile.
He let his breath out. Then another line.
The first hour passed in a blur of pigment and silence. He painted the shape of Pond's shoulder, the slope of his back, the way the linen shirt pulled across his biceps. The gray was hard to get right—too cool and it looked like stone, too warm and it lost the weight of the fabric. He mixed, wiped, scrapped, started again. The brush became an extension of his hand, and his hand moved as if following a song he could only hear in his bones.
His phone buzzed. He ignored it. It buzzed again. He ignored it harder. When he finally looked up, the canvas held the rough shape of a body, one arm wrapped around empty air where his own shoulder would be, and he was halfway through the cup of cold coffee Siyh must have left on his desk sometime—he didn't remember her coming in.
He set the brush down. His fingers ached. The light had shifted; the window showed a grayer blue, afternoon pressing in. He stretched his neck, cracked his knuckles, checked his phone.
Six messages from Santa: "u alive", "painting yet", "how's the masterpiece", "phuwin answer i will send pond to check on u", "ok not doing that", "response when u can love u".
Two from Siyh: "Bring you food?" and "Left coffee on your desk hope u drink it b4 it becomes a science experiment."
And one from Pond.
"Thinking of you. Paint something beautiful."
Phuwin smiled, thumb hovering over the keyboard, then set the phone down and picked the brush back up. The ache in his fingers was good. It meant he was working.
He painted the curve of Pond's waist, the way the baggy jeans sagged just enough to show the gray waistband of his boxers, low on the hip. The detail made his stomach tighten. He painted it anyway, carefully, the line of elastic against skin, the shadow of the hipbone, the way the fabric fell and folded.
By the time he remembered to order food, his stomach was growling loud enough to rival his aunt's mixer. He grabbed his phone, ordered the usual from the noodle place three blocks over—extra chili, no spring onion—and set it to deliver. Then he changed the song. The lo-fi beats had been running on repeat, faded into a background hum. He swapped to something with a guitar, a soft thrum that felt like late afternoons and open windows.
The canvas was starting to look like a person now. Not just any person—Pond. The forehead, the curve of the jaw, the strong shoulder rendered in gray and white and blue. Phuwin had blocked in the line of the arm holding the camera, his own ghost-hand resting on Pond's grip, and the angle was almost right. Almost.
He stepped back, wiping his hands on his paint-stained shorts. He studied the canvas the way he studied a reflection: looking for the thing that didn't match, the lie he'd told himself about being able to do this.
It was good. It was actually, sincerely good.
His face flushed. He picked up his phone, aimed it at the canvas, and tapped the shutter. Then he opened his chat with Pond and sent it with a single line: "Just a teaser. You have to wait like everyone else."
Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then a photo from Pond—a selfie, taken low, showing the underside of his jaw, the gold chain resting against his collarbone, and just a suggestion of a smile, dark-eyed and amused. Under it: "Everyone else doesn't get to see you paint me from memory. That's just for me."
Phuwin's heart did a thing. A stupid, fluttery thing that he blamed entirely on the chili he hadn't eaten yet.
He typed: "Don't get cocky."
Pond's response was immediate: "Too late. Already thinking about the day I get on one knee and you say yes."
Phuwin's fingers stopped. The screen stared back at him, the words settling into his chest like warm syrup. He read them again. Then again. Then he laughed, a short breathless sound, and flopped backward onto his bed, phone held above his face.
He typed: "You haven't even seen the painting yet. What if it's terrible?"
Pond: "Doesn't matter. I'm not proposing to the painting."
Phuwin: "You're ridiculous."
Pond: "And you're going to say yes."
Phuwin bit his lip, grinning at the ceiling. He could feel the blush creeping up his neck, warm and silly and entirely unwelcome. He didn't answer. Not because he didn't know how—but because answering felt like admitting something too big to fit in a text bubble.
He switched apps. Sent Siyh a picture of the canvas with the caption: "What do you think?"
She replied within a minute: "OH MY GOD PHUWIN THAT'S HIM. THAT'S SO HIM. I'M SCREAMING."
Then Santa chimed in: "Looking good. But why is his belt missing? Did you forget the belt?"
Phuwin snorted. "He's wearing baggy jeans. The belt would ruin the line."
Santa: "Sure. Blame the line."
Phuwin threw his phone onto the blanket, laughing. The doorbell rang, a sharp buzz that cut through the guitar track. He sat up, swung his legs off the bed, and padded toward the stairs. His phone lay face-up on the blanket, still open to the chat with Pond, the proposal dangling like a promise he wasn't ready to catch yet.
He left it there. Footsteps creaked down the stairs. The doorbell rang again, more insistent, and he heard Godji calling from the kitchen that she was busy and someone else better get it. He jogged down the last few steps, pulled the door open, and found the delivery kid holding a plastic bag of noodles and looking thoroughly unimpressed by the twenty-minute wait.
"Sorry," Phuwin said, taking the bag. "Lost track of time."
The kid shrugged and handed him his change. Phuwin closed the door with his hip and stood in the hallway, the warm smell of chili and garlic rising from the bag. Above him, the bare bulb of his room still glowed, the canvas half-covered in the shape of a man he was falling for, and the phone he had left behind held a conversation that felt like a doorway.
He took a breath. Noodles first. Then back up. Then more painting.
The canvas was waiting, and he was not done yet.